


Memoriae

by FemmeBrulee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-11-19 14:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FemmeBrulee/pseuds/FemmeBrulee
Summary: As far as she is concerned, the war hadn't ended ten years ago but had simply gone silent, like a great, raging river disappearing into a cave. The other thing about wars is that they lived on in people, clinging to them like blood on bone. A story about love and redemption, loss and pain, and the memories that tie them all together. Complete.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi reader, thank you for stumbling onto Memoriae. This fic is now complete. This story was a labour of love, so I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are a writer's lifeblood, and I'll just leave it at that :D

 

_What is a memory?_

_Is it the first crunch of autumn’s red leaves beneath a little girl’s boots? The vastness of a single snowflake as it rests on the ridges of her fingertip? The warmth of her mother’s cheek against hers or the way her father’s laughter rises like a bubble as he lifts her up in the air?_

_Or is it in the howl etched across her best friend’s features as he watches another life ripped from his grasp? The ethereal blue-gold haze of the night sky as it is lit by a hundred wands raised in mourning? The way the fingers of a pair of lovers remain intertwined as they lie lifeless beside each other?_

 ***

**2007**

 

With a faint _crack,_ she Apparates onto a deserted street. Empty beer cans and still-glowing cigarette stubs litter the pavements under the street lamps, and the faint musk of perfume curls in the warm night air. The atmosphere is slightly perturbed, as though many people have just Disapparated together, one after the other.

Because it’s Friday night. And nothing vacates her sleepy little neighbourhood of its inhabitants faster that Friday nights, not when there are restaurants and bars and clubs to be filled up in the larger towns nearby.

There would be peace and quiet, at least until the early hours of dawn. It’s just what she needs after yet another late night at the office, as she pictures herself curling up in her armchair at home with a stiff drink in her hand.

She heads straight for _Machado’s_ , a family-owned liquor shop she had discovered a few months ago and visits almost weekly now. It’s not that she depends on the stuff, it’s just that the mess inside her head would be easier to bear with a drink or three.

Bells tinkle overhead as she enters the shop. An old man with light brown eyes and a full head of white hair looks up at her and smiles with a warmth that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Another late night at the office, Hermione?”

“Yes, Joseph. You think you’ve come close to solving a problem, but you’ve actually just taken ten steps in the wrong direction.”

“Somehow, I know exactly what you mean,” he chuckles. “The usual red?”

“Actually, I thought I’d try something stronger tonight.”

His eyes falter on her face for a moment before he nods. “Certainly. What are you craving? Something sweet? Dry? Spiced?”

_As long as it takes the edge off._

“Happy for whatever you recommend, Joseph.”

The old man rubs his hands together as he thinks, his eyes widening suddenly in triumph. “Think I’ve got just the thing,”  he says, as he steps around the counter to one of the display shelves arranged around the shop.

He mutters to himself as he skims over the shelves, finally settling upon a tall glass bottle filled with a rich, burgundy-coloured liquid.

“Black currant rum imported directly from Germany,” he informs her proudly, his eyes twinkling. “Deep, fruity notes, with a touch of acidity. Pairs perfectly with a good book. Unless of course, you’re having company tonight?” he adds with a kindly wink.

“No, no, nothing like that, Joseph,” she smiles. “I’ve just been in need of a change recently. This looks perfect.”

There is a silence as Joseph rings up her purchase and slides the bottle of rum into a sleek black bag.

“Everything alright with you these days, Hermione?” he asks as he hands it to her.

She wants to tell him then, to release some of the pressure that has been building up in her chest these last months, to secure herself in the very separateness of their lives. Because she’s tired. Because it’s just nice to be asked sometimes.

“Yes, everything’s fine. Just been a bit overwhelmed at work.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard, Hermione,” the old man says gently. “Take it from me. It’s not always worth it.”

Joseph is probably the other reason she keeps coming back to the shop. They’re strangers, and she knows as little about his life, his family and his past as much as he knows about hers, but then there come these small moments of kindness that ring in her heart for hours.

She presses her lips into a smile and mumbles her thanks.

A small flurry of movement catches her eye when she steps out of the shop. A group of people in loud orange t-shirts are huddled together down the street from the shop. One of them, a woman with wild black hair tamed into a messy braid, catches Hermione’s eye, whispers something excitedly to the group, and begins to jog toward her. Glossy black letters spelling M.U.M.P.S are emblazoned across her chest.

 _O_ _h _fu_ ck, what are these idiots doing here at this hour? Start walking. Pretend you saw nothing- _

“Hello!” The woman calls out, but Hermione does not stop and rummages about in her bag like she is looking for something.

“Hello, there!” _Go away, go away._

“Hermione Granger, isn’t it?” the woman gushes, falling in step next to her.

_Fuck._

“We’re doing a petition,” she says, thrusting a piece of paper into Hermione’s hand. “We want to expand anti-discrimination laws to include former criminal status. The current laws are too easily circumvented-”

There are many, _many_ things Hermione wants to tell this woman, but she locks her words behind a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m still undecided on the matter.”

“It’ll mean so much for the movement if we got a signature from you—”

“I said I’m undecided. I really need to go now.”

“Remember, absence of war does not make peace!” the woman calls out as Hermione hurries away, desperation for a drink building painfully between her eyes.

Their world is divided. Anyone could see that. As far as she is concerned, the war hadn’t ended ten years ago but had simply gone silent, like a great, raging river disappearing into a cave. Old scars had hardened into badges of moral outrage. Those once hunted and tortured for the mere crime of their birth, those left alive, had grasped among the ruins and found daggers. Over the years, there were whispers of a name for anyone even remotely associated with Voldemort or Death Eaters - _Unforgivables_ , just like the curses they once so freely used. Every single one of them had been driven out of wizarding neighbourhoods, communities, and few cared where.

The Movement for the Unification of Magical Peoples, or MUMPs, is the response. They are a hodge-podge of young people, all brought together by a singular purpose: to rebuild a deeply fractured community.

It makes her scoff. She might have been that naive all those years ago, but she knows better now. In the end, memory makes fools of them all.

Her apartment is a respite as she steps inside, a picture of wood-panelled comfort. She walks into her bedroom, dumping her things onto her bed and stares at herself in the mirror.

There are dark circles under her eyes and her skin is deathly pale. No wonder Joseph had looked concerned.

She thinks back to the moment, exactly two months ago now, when she had sat before this very mirror, a quaking, tear-stained mess. She remembers how the dull scissor blades had struggled through her thick, bushy curls, the way clumps of her hair had floated slowly to the floor, like dry leaves on a windless night.

That’s the other thing about wars. They lived on in people, clinging to them like blood on bone.

She changes into her nightgown and has barely sat down by the fireplace to pour herself a glass of rum when something large, brown and feathery sails straight through her living room window.

She almost drops the glass in alarm as the owl crashes onto her coffee table and skids to a halt. There in an envelope attached to its talons, which it releases before staggering back to its feet and flinging itself into the skies again.

She freezes at the sight of the seal on the envelope. Purple, waxy, with a large “H” in the middle.

It reminds her of the letter that lay at the foot of her front door when she was eleven. It also makes her think of warning letters, and offences, and hearings-

_Had someone found out?_

Heart thudding inside her chest, she reaches warily for the envelope and tugs it opens, pulling out the folded yellow parchment inside.

It’s almost four pages long, and written in an impeccable hand, in the inimitable, flamboyant style of Horace Slughorn.

She pours herself a drink and begins to read.

_1st of May 2007._

_Dear Hermione Granger,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and furthermore trust that, regardless of any dispute that you may have with the content that follows, you will give it your fullest consideration._

_It has been one decade since the end of the Second Wizarding War. Many of you have moved on, and built new lives. Yet, how can we fully stake claim to the end of a war when many old animosities and fault lines continue to linger..._

_...The War may have ended, but the wizarding world is far from healed. Our communities remain fractured. To move forward we must first seek out the roots…_

_…Hogwarts houses have been abolished…_

The rum almost sprays from her mouth, her eyes combing over the line again and again. Abolished? Had Slughorn meant something else? Or perhaps it was a Quick-Quotes Quill gone rogue?

_...much deliberation between members of the school board and the Ministry…_

No, no no. But how _could_ they? What was Hogwarts without its Houses, the legacy of its founders? This was thousands of years of tradition they were putting an end to. It was unthinkable, impossible.

_...Sorting will be randomised, to ensure that students of all backgrounds, traits and abilities are given opportunities to interact and forge lasting friendships with one another…_

She almost laughs out loud. Didn’t he realise they had been doing that already? Some of the people she loved most in her life were not from Gryffindor. Even in school, everyone had classes with students from other Houses, people mingled during meals at the Great Hall, _most_ student groups didn’t discriminate. All with the exception of one House, but they _chose_ to stick to themselves, to turn their noses up on anyone that wasn’t like them. Surely he couldn’t mean-

_….to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the end of the war, the staff at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry take great pleasure in inviting you to a Reunification Ball…_

_...as an opportunity to build new bridges and mend those that lie broken..._

No. Just _no_ . He couldn’t have been serious, could he? How was it any of their responsibility to “build bridges” with _them_? They had caused the war in the first place, remained so horribly adamant on preserving their precious blood hierarchies. They had betrayed, abused, tortured and murdered so many people, ripped apart so many families-

Her hand is shaking as she tips her glass to her lips.

Perhaps Slughorn still had a soft spot for them, being a member of the same House after all. The man had always been rather eccentric.

_...We hope you will join us for this momentous, indeed revolutionary, occasion, for what will no doubt be a critical juncture in the future of all magical peoples..._

Yet, she admits as she folds the letter and lays it on the table, a small, very reluctant part of her knows what he means.

After the war, there had been Wizengamot trials lasting months and those who fought with Voldemort were duly punished for their crimes, with many sentenced to life in Azkaban. But there were also a fair few, mainly the young ones, who had gotten off with lighter sentences. After a few years of house arrest, confiscation of wands, prohibition of magic use - all mere slaps on the wrist as far as she is concerned - they were free to go.

Nobody had seen any of them in the intervening years, save for a few sensational _Prophet_ articles claiming some had been overheard planning a revival, or spotted in Muggle neighbourhoods looking suspicious. No one had any real idea where they were or what they were doing with their lives. Once self-proclaimed sovereigns of the wizarding world, now exiled to the margins.

It isn’t an unreasonable or unexpected consequence, given their role in starting a devastating war, but she finds that small, reluctant part of herself agreeing with Slughorn. Staying enemies - she finds the word discordant on her tongue, like a bitter Chocolate Frog - is precisely what will impede the wizarding world from re-inventing itself, from applying itself to greater and more useful pursuits than whose blood was superior to whose.

But she’d be damned if she had to take the first step.

 


	2. Two

_ Memory is in the details. Everyone remembers differently.  _

_ Ask yourself. _

_ How long since you last saw kindness in a stranger’s eyes? _

_ Or sincerity in a friend’s? _

_ On which side were you standing when the world split in two? _

***

With pale fingers, she pours herself a drink to soothe her nerves before leaving for the Reunification Ball. She has to, because every good memory she has of Hogwarts is held hostage by a bad one. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, starry with the eyes of the dead. The rolling green grounds, an eternal resting place for a beloved Headmaster. 

Most of her friends had declined Slughorn’s invitation. She understands, because it doesn’t feel right, going back to Hogwarts as they had left it, as though nothing had changed since then.

Who would show up, she wonders. She doubts any Unforgivables will make it out of hiding to attend. To them, the abolishment of Slytherin House and everything it stood for would have been like the last, ringing toll in their own elegies.

She takes a quick peek at herself in the glass of the kitchen cabinet. Shorn curls that barely brush the tops of her shoulders. Light makeup doing a passable job of masking the fatigue on her skin. A dark, off-shoulder dress she hasn’t worn in years.

With a deep breath, she Apparates to a point just on the edge of the Forbidden Forest as Slughorn’s letter had instructed.

The first thing she notices as she arrives with a resounding  _ crack _ , is the forest’s familiar, earthy scent.

The second thing she notices is Gregory Goyle. 

He seems to have Apparated into the forest at the same time she has, and now stands next to her, regarding her with wide, dumbfounded eyes. In a straight cut black suit, he looks older than he is, with a short beard covering most of the bottom half of his face. Before Hermione can say anything, he stumbles off toward a retreating group a short distance ahead of them, and she thinks she can make out Blaise Zabini’s tall, slim silhouette.

Her heart starts to pound.  _ What are they all doing here? Where have they been all this time? How dare they come back? _

There is a hum of voices ahead and soft blue light emanating from the treetops into the warm summer night. More people have come than she was expecting. 

As she heads for lawn, a familiar, singsong voice call out her name.

“Oh, hello, Luna.”

“Have you come alone?” Luna asks, looking radiant in a multi-layered orange frock and a pair of large pumpkin-shaped earrings, her long blonde hair streaming behind her.

“Yes, I wasn’t expecting such a crowd.”

“It’s a noble cause, after all.”

Of course. If anyone could find it in themselves to forgive murderers, it would be Luna Lovegood.

“You think it’s too radical?” Luna, with her head tilted to one side, always had a way of knowing exactly what people were thinking.

“Well, yes, a bit. How do you not think so?” Hermione adds before she can stop herself.

“We have to give them a chance, show them we’re willing to accept them again. Otherwise we’ll never truly be united.”

“You’re not upset that they’re abolishing the Houses to do it?”

Luna smiles sadly. “I am, of course. But I accept it, if that’s what it takes.”

The atmosphere at the Ball is palpably tense. People are clustered in small, familiar groups, speaking in low voices, their eyes cautiously scanning the crowd. There are former students, from Hermione’s year and before, and also many new faces she doesn’t recognise. 

The music gently fades as Slughorn’s voice booms across the sky.

“Students, colleagues, friends. It is truly an honour to celebrate with you this milestone in the history of magical kind. Words cannot express how delighted I, on behalf of all staff here at Hogwarts, am to see so many of you gathered here tonight.”

“The news about the abolishment of Hogwarts’ House system must have come as a shock to you all. Rest assured, it was not a decision made lightly nor without significant debate. Yet, it is our belief that this is the best way forward for our community. A fresh start, as it were.

“That so many of you have come tonight tells me that our mission has resonated with you, at least in some small way. We see it in our day-to-day, the old animosities that endure in spite of time. Let us hope our young ones do not make the same mistakes we did and let us now be examples unto them.

“So we beseech you, talk to each other. Create space in your hearts for understanding, for compassion, for reconciliation. Let bygones be bygones and take the first step into the world of tomorrow.

“I bid you all raise your glasses to a brighter future. Absence of war does not make peace.”

_ Of course,  _ Hermione inwardly groans, _ another casualty of MUMPS.  _  Not everyone joins in Slughorn’s toast, many nervously staring at their feet or sipping from their glasses. A silence quickly blankets the festivities as people realise what they have just been asked, in no uncertain terms, to do. The Slytherin students suddenly look very conspicuous standing on the opposite side of the lawn from everyone else, their expressions tight and sullen.

The hope on Slughorn’s face seems to falter slightly and he looks like he is about to say something else when there is movement on Hermione’s side of the crowd.

Luna has emerged from a knot of people and is calmly crossing the lawn to the other side, her orange dress billowing behind her like a rogue flame. Everyone quietly watches as, head held high and a gentle smile on her face, Luna stops in front of a young woman from her year, and extends her right hand. The woman stares at Luna’s hand and glances at her friends, who look just as nonplussed, but eventually takes it and gives it a brief shake.

A few more students have started to do the same, Hermione realises, walking across the lawn towards a person on the other side, armed with a smile or an outstretched hand.

“Momentous!” Slughorn cheers, making everyone jump. “Absolutely marvellous! This,  _ this,  _ is what we wanted to see!” He flicks his wand in the air and the music resumes playing, diffusing the tension in the air by just a fraction.

As the night progress, Hermione notices Slughorn flit between groups and talk enthusiastically to the guests. He is dressed in elegant salmon pink robes and looks very much in his element, from what Hermione remembers of him.   _ Collecting people, wasn’t it? His hobby?  _

At one point, his eyes fall upon her.

“Hermione,” he says warmly as he strides toward her, a visible gleam in his eye. “So good of you to come.”

She nods tightly, accepting a firm handshake. “It was the least I could do.”

“Indeed,” he muses with a theatrical sigh, his eyes scoping the crowd. “A long, difficult road is ahead of us, wouldn’t you say?”

“To be perfectly honest, Professor, I’m not so sure—” she begins to say, but Slughorn’s attention is elsewhere.

“Zabini...Goyle...they were from your year, correct?” he asks, his eyes fixed somewhere just ahead of him.

“Um, yes, but—”

“Good, good,” he says, gesturing toward a spot in the crowd, where she realises both Zabini and Goyle are standing, looking very sullen and reluctant. “No time like the present for a chance to make amends, am I right?” 

_ No, no, she is not ready for this. Forcing people to talk to each other? _

“I- I just need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back, Professor,” she manages, nearly stumbling over her feet in an effort to get away. 

She spots an opening to a different section of the lawn and heads straight for it, recognising how badly she had overestimated her own ability to look her past in the eyes. 

Steadying her breath, she rounds the corner behind a tall hedge and is met with a part of the grounds more beautiful than the rest. It’s bordered on all sides by low brick walls and manicured hedges. At the centre of the square is a white marble fountain, gleaming in the moonlight. The sound of streaming water has precisely the calming effect she needs at the moment and she is drawn to it, reaching out her hand and watching the cascading water divide at her fingertips.

She stands there for a while, her eyes closed and her breaths slow and deep, when the sound of clinking glass jolts her from her reverie. She spins around and her eyes widen.

Draco Malfoy is lounging on a wall, leaning back against a tall hedge with his legs outstretched in front of him and a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand. He’s dressed in a black suit, the knot of his tie carelessly loosened and his jacket discarded next to him. There are faint lines around his eyes that were not there before and a shadow of stubble on his jaw. But otherwise it is the same angled face, the same mess of blond hair.

“You can stop looking at me like I’ve crawled back up from the dead.” 

“Um I—” she hurriedly casts her eyes to a patch of grass and crosses her arms to her chest. “I thought you hadn’t come.” 

Why had she thought retreating into a secluded corner of an exceedingly awkward social event was a good idea? She should have stayed at home. Home. By the fire. With a drink. 

“Part of me wishes I hadn’t, with the way Slughorn’s going around obsessively chucking people at each other.” There is the slightest hint of a slur in his voice. Remarkable, considering he seems to have downed half a bottle of wine all by himself.

Hermione raises her eyes to meet his. “I’m surprised you did, though. I’m surprised any of you did.”

“Trust me when I say none of us wanted to at first. But Slughorn found and met with each and every one of us to talk us into it, tell us why it was important that we attend. And so here we are.” His voice drags over the last few vowels.

"Well just leave then, if you’re so unhappy about being here.” She doesn’t know why she’s feeling so irritated all of a sudden.  _ Because it’s Malfoy. Draco fucking Malfoy. _

“What, and miss the advent of the most sorely needed reform in all of Hogwarts’ history? Not bloody likely.”

She furrows her brows. “I hope you’re not referring to the abolishment of the House system.”

He snorts. “Of course  _ you’d _ say it like that. Fucking Golden Gryffindor-”

“Hold on. You’re saying you  _ support  _ this move?”

“Course I do. The House system was facile and divisive and it deserves to go rot.”

This both surprises and rankles her. “It absolutely wasn’t,” the words come out softer than she expects. “We were sorted according to our truest, most outstanding qualities-”

He swings his legs over the wall and leans forward on his hands, an unplaceable look on his face. “Just stop, Granger. Before you embarrass yourself. Think of how easy that is for you to say. What were the Gryffindor traits again? Courage, chivalry and determination if I remember right? Meanwhile, we Slytherins were cunning and selfish before we even knew how to walk. Lovely, uplifting things to tell eleven-year-old children.”

“Hold on. If I remember right, you _were_ all of those things. And worse. Have you forgotten already?”

He shakes his head and she can see his jaw working. “They were just labels. Empty, meaningless labels-”

“Oh they’re just labels now, are they?” She refuses to be spoken to in that way. Not after what he and his family had done to her, had done to all of them. “Ten years ago it meant everything to you to be a Slytherin, to be pureblood-”

“It was quite a different world ten years ago-”

"- and now that you’ve lost your place you think you can lecture the rest of us about how unfair it all was-”

“-Hogwarts and its horrendously outdated Sorting system-”

“Don’t you blame Hogwarts for your—”

She trails off because he has hopped down from the wall and is stalking toward her, his grey eyes flashing. Her body seizes up instinctively but she keeps her eyes on his, chin raised defiantly. She is not about to let Draco Malfoy intimidate her.

He stops next to her, leaning his arms against the edge of the fountain and stares into the flowing water. It is unexpected and she is about to step away, but catches herself before she does.

“For over a thousand years, Hogwarts had children believe they possessed certain inherent, inviolable traits, the traits of its founders. Don’t you ever wonder why no one really questioned any of it?” 

He looks at her, his expression softer than it had been a moment ago, his eyes searching hers. There is an unmistakable scent about him, something that reminds her of mountains and rain. 

He’s making her think, and normally she would welcome a thought-provoking conversation, but coming from Malfoy it feels like a serpent is lying in wait somewhere in the shadows of her mind, ready to coil itself around any assured thought she has.

“I suppose because people did see these qualities in themselves and in others.”

“Only after the fact,” he says, shaking his head. “If you’d been sorted into Slytherin, you might have started to believe you were crooked too.” There is an edge in his voice as he says this, something between anger and sadness, and she realises she has never heard him speak like this before. Measured. Calm. Thoughtful, even.

“That does not excuse people from the horrific things they did.”  _ That you did.  _

“Mind you, none of us here today actually killed anyone, or committed any of the serious crimes our parents were convicted for. Regardless, we all believed, or were led to believe, that we were doing the honourable thing. Now we see things very differently, of course, save for a few nutters. But to the rest of the world we will always be Death Eaters, always Slytherins.”

“Perhaps now you’ll understand how we felt. Put into boxes. Labelled. Treated like dirt.”

“So you punish your enemies by doing the same to them? Tell me, when has that ever worked?”

“Do you seriously expect people to welcome you back with open arms? After  _ everything _ ?”

“Not being so bloody reactionary would be a start. Do you realise how much worse it got for us after the war? No one will hire us, most shops won’t even let us in the door, sodding  _ Prophet  _ journalists hounding us everywhere we go, twisting our words, spinning horrible lies about the things we do. It’s bloody exile. So of course I’m happy this archaic institution is finally doing something about it. The rot starts here. Always has.”

She pauses, not because she wants to, but because she has to take a moment to process his words and square them with the memory of a certain pale, pointy-faced boy from her youth who never missed an opportunity to remind everyone exactly who he was and the pure-blooded legacy to which he belonged. 

“I’ll admit, Hogwarts hasn’t—”

Before she can finish, she is distantly aware of raised voices coming from the main lawn. And the music, how long has it stopped playing?

“— won’t do it! You’re mad if you think I will—”

“— put your wand down, Barnaby, please—”

A combination of curiosity and time-hardened instinct pulls Hermione towards the source of the sound, her hand already curled around the wand in her pocket. Out on the main lawn, a small group has gathered around a man with sandy hair, his face red and his wand pointed straight at Goyle.

“— ridiculous. I am not going to grovel—”

“—calm down, you don’t have to—”

“I lost my grandparents because of them, because of him!”

Goyle is shaking his head and muttering loudly, his hands raised in front of him.

No...no...wasn’t me...my father...not me...not me…”

“Coward,” Barnaby spits, his mouth twisted in revulsion. “Pretending like you had nothing to do with your father’s crimes, like you never supported him—”

“No...never touched them...it was father...not me...please…” There is a wild look in Goyle’s eyes, a touch of panic in his grunting monotone.

“SHUT UP!” Barnaby, is trembling with rage, and his eyes are swimming in tears as they concentrate on Goyle. “You...you don’t get to explain yourself! You don’t deserve it! In fact, this whole…. _ charade _ is utter bullshit! We shouldn’t be re-uniting with murderers, with scum-”

“I’M NOT A MURDERER!” Goyle cries out, his glassy, bloodshot eyes now fixed on Barnaby, his huge body shaking, purple veins visible on his neck. “I never killed anyone! I never joined them, never took the Mark! I’m not like them, but nobody believes-” he trails off into a whimper as his friends strain to hold onto his arms and whisper furiously into his ear.

Slughorn and a few other teachers are pushing their way through the deadly silent crowd that has formed round the scene. “Mr. Goyle, Mr. Barnaby, please, if you could just calm down so we can-” 

“NO! I thought I’d give it a chance, your new  _ plan  _ for Hogwarts,” hisses Barnaby. “But then I look at these repulsive faces and remember what they, what HE did to my family...so no way I’m going to give them a chance. Made up my mind long ago. Our world is better without such filth in it and this… whatever you’re trying to do here, it’s completely useless and misguided! You’ll realise that some day!” 

A small part of Hermione had been expecting something like this to happen. The announcement  about the abolishment of the Houses had come too suddenly, in a time when too many people were not ready to do what had been asked of them, were not even convinced it was the right thing to do. 

“Barnaby’s right. This won’t work,” chimes in a voice from somewhere in the crowd.

“Yeah, we’re better off without ‘em. This lot don’t belong in civilised society,” adds another voice, to a soft chorus of approval that ripples through the crowd. Thee other Slytherins have become as silent as the grave, their eyes fixed on the ground. Tears streak Goyle’s face, his breathing heavy and ragged as he fights to compose himself.

Barnaby twists free from the grasp of the person holding him, and storms toward the throng of people, who part to let him through. Several others break away from the rest of the guests and join him, a small exodus. Those left standing look dispirited, lost.

Slughorn defeatedly watches the students leave, his moustache sagging and his shoulders slumped. Hermione thinks she will go and talk to him, tell him he tried to do what he could, when she remembers Malfoy. 

She turns around, but he’s gone.


	3. Three

_Her tiny hand is clasped firmly in her mother’s and her eyebrows are furrowed as though she is concentrating hard on something on the pavement. She has to walk with her shoulders pulled back and her other arm sticking out to the side so the blue smock she is wearing doesn’t touch her skin so much. She hates how prickly and uncomfortable it feels. As the din of children’s voices grows slowly but surely louder, she stops._

_“What is it, sweetheart?” her mother asks softly, crouching down beside her._

_“Have the butterflies come back?” Her father does the same on her other side._

_She gives a tiny nod. The butterflies have been there since breakfast but she didn’t want to worry them._

_“What are you afraid of, darling?”_

_She thinks about this for a moment and says, “What if the other children don’t like me?”_

_Her father smiles and sits down on the pavement, cross-legged. He did funny things like that sometimes. It makes her and her mother laugh._

_“Well, why wouldn’t they? You’re such a kind and clever girl. I think the real question here is, what if they like you so much you decide you never want to come back home?”_

_She giggles at this. “Don’t be silly, Dad, of course I’ll come back home.”_

_“You’d better,” he says with a wink._

_“Remember what we told you, Hermione.” Her mother’s voice is like the honey they pour over their pancakes. “You’ve just got to be yourself. That’s how you’ll know that people like you for who you are.”_

_“I remember.”_

_“I was scared on my first day too, you know?” says her father, taking her small hands in his. “But the teachers were really lovely and there was this huge room with all sorts of toys and books_ — _”_

_“Books?” Her eyes are wide._

_“Oh yes, hundreds and hundreds of books. Maybe you’ll meet other children who like the same books you do.”_

_“That’d be nice.”_

_“And at the end of the day, Mum and Dad will be right here. No one could love you more than we do.”_

_She nods, imagining her heart filling up like a balloon. “I know.”_

 

***

 

She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the Ball, even for weeks afterward. The hate in Barnaby’s voice, the fear in Goyle’s, how fresh and raw that line in the middle of their world still was.

And that man she’d spoken to by the fountain. She was refusing to use his name because there was simply no way that man was Draco Malfoy. Certainly not the one she used to know.

_They were just labels. Empty, meaningless labels._

_The rot starts here. Always has._

Maybe the distractions have been good for her, because the revelation hits her late one Friday evening at the office, like a stack of books to the head.

_Fluxweed._

She must have exclaimed out loud, because the door to the brewing room adjoining her office cracks open, and a dewy face peers out amidst a cloud of purple steam.

“Everything alright?” Elias asks, his fair curls frizzing and plastered around his ears.

“Shut the door will you.” Hermione wrinkles her nose at the smell and gestures for him to take a seat. “I think I’ve realised something.”

“What is it?”

“Fluxweed. Isn’t one of its core properties mutability? The ability to change, and flow?”

“Yes, that’s right,” he pauses, glancing at her. “You’re thinking of adding it to something?”

_Nothing you need to know about._

“I just mean, in general, don’t you think it could be useful to work with, especially if we want to... alter the effects a potion has on the drinker?”

He frowns. “I’m not sure I understand, Hermione.”

She clears her throat and straightens up in her seat. “Take the Pepper-Up. Great for colds, but comes with a nasty side effect, right? Couldn’t something like Fluxweed activate something in potion that would make it easier to control, manipulate into something better?

He purses his lips in thought. “It sounds correct in theory, but Fluxweed is inconstant by nature, Goshawk was very clear on that in her book, said Fluxweed shouldn’t go anywhere near medicinal potions. It could really tamper with a person’s body if we’re not careful.”

She considers him for a moment, his green eyes bright in spite of the shadows gathered under them. A lesser assistant would have stormed out after being expected to pull 12-hour days, almost every day for months. But Elias had never once questioned or protested the long hours, and somehow always managed to match her own mental stamina.

She’d known, from the moment she met him, how much this job would mean to him. 38 people had applied for the job, all fresh Hogwarts graduates raring to dive headfirst into their careers. But something about Elias, about the way his cheeks had turned red during the interview from listing the many uses of Hellebore petals, about the way he’d gushed over the chance to work with _the_ Hermione Granger, had told her he was the right choice.

She’d known, in other words, how much he’d be willing to put up with.

“Yes, Elias,” she continues. “But that’s our job. We’re meant to test the limits of our own knowledge about healing magic. How can we do that if we’re afraid to cross a line or two?”

“Won’t we need some sort of approval to—”

“You’d let people die over a bloody approval?” she snaps a little too loudly. It isn’t the first time she’s lost her temper with him. Sometimes, he reminded her a bit too much of the person she used to be.

Elias looks at her with a mixture of apology and discomfort in his eyes and it’s only serving to irritate her further.

“Look,” she says, staring resolutely at the top of his head. “Just trust me on this, alright? Trust me to exercise discretion with this job. I’ve been navigating this Ministry and its bureaucracy for the last ten years, with the sole intention of getting remedies to the people that need them. This job is the very definition of risks worth taking. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

He studies her face, still not looking entirely convinced, and releases a slow breath. “I’m only doing this because it’s you…”

_Finally, thank you._

“...but we’d have to cast some sort of stabilising charm after, though. Fluxweed can behave unpredictably if not managed properly.”

“Of course,” she nods, trying to hide the extent of her relief as she glances at the clock. “It’s already past eight. Finish up in there, and we’ll continue next week.”

She stands and starts to pack her notes away, but Elias remains rooted to his seat.

“Um, Hermione?”

She raises her eyebrows while shelving her papers into her desk drawer. “Yes?”

He’s refusing to meet her eyes, instead pretending to be very interested in the hem of his shirt.

“Some of the others and I were talking, and, don’t take this the wrong way, but we can tell something’s...troubling you. Ever since the...episode earlier this year and...well, we think it would be a good idea if you came out to drinks with us tonight. Just to unwind a bit? It’s Friday. Might do you some good.”

She presses her lips together because she doesn’t trust herself with what she is going to say next. She’s known for months that they had been watching her and talking about her. They thought they were being discreet, but she could sense it every time they hushed each other when she was nearby, or the way they stared at her over the tops of their coffee mugs. It makes her feel like some sort of dangerous, caged animal.

"Thanks, but I don’t need your concern.”

“Hermione, please don’t feel like you—”

“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel,” she spins around, glaring at him. “My personal life is none of your business!”

“We just want you to know that you can talk to us—”

She scoffs loudly. “The only thing we should talk about, Elias, is our research. I don’t ask you about your personal life, because, simply put, I don’t want you nosing about in mine. Do you understand?”

He raises his hands in front of him. “Yeah, okay. Fine. I’m sorry.”

“Good. Now get going.”

A deep flush colours his cheeks as he retreats into the brewing room, his mortification evident in the occasional clanging of cauldrons and scales. She feels a pang of guilt when she notices just how tired he looks as he locks the door to the brewing room. She starts to say something, but he’s gone before she can.

Hermione cradles her face in her palms and groans. She’d been looking forward to going home after this never-ending day and cracking open a book by the fireplace with a glass of wine. But how could she, when the memory Elias has stirred up is blaring like a siren inside her head?

Was that what they were calling it? An _episode_? It makes her want to put her fist through something.

She feels an overwhelming, restless urge to go for a long walk. Walk until her feet start to ache and her thoughts tire themselves out. Walk somewhere no one will recognise her, or ask questions she doesn’t think she’ll ever be ready to answer.

She concentrates hard on a quiet seaside town she’d been to a few months ago, to pay a house visit to an elderly man who’d caught a nasty bout of levitation sickness. A cold, solitary wind had licked her cheeks as she walked there, but she remembered feeling strangely comforted by the silence.

With a _crack,_ she Apparates by a moonlit pier, to the sound of gentle waves breaking upon the rocks. A warm breeze whips the bottom of her dress. The place is as quiet as she remembers it, with barely a soul in sight. A small town rises on a hill to the west and a church tower looms above the grey rooftops.

Several narrow, cobbled streets snake off in the direction of the town, barely lit by the street lamps. She chooses a path and begins to walk, not caring where it will lead.

The street is mostly quiet, save for a handful of people treading familiar paths back to their homes. She loses herself in imagining who they might be, and who might be waiting for them beyond these warm, lamp-lit windows.

It might have been an hour later, maybe more, when she hears music, slow rock, pulsing like a heartbeat in the wind. Just ahead, soft orange light spills through an open door. She walks toward it, feeling herself drawn toward the light as though by outstretched arms.

The pub looks like it has been sung into existence by the music. It smells faintly of citrus and wood and cigarettes, with a long bar on one side and booths on the other. It’s lit dimly by tiny orange bulbs strung across the ceiling and there is an eclectic assortment of things along the walls like framed posters and car plates.

The people in here are quiet, hunched over their whiskey glasses in a solitude that is both everyone’s and theirs alone. There doesn’t seem to be anyone serving drinks except for a blonde waitress who is laughing with a young man at the far booth. Hermione chooses a seat at the bar and reads the menu scribbled in chalk on the wall opposite her.

The waitress hurries over after a few minutes, her cheeks almost rivalling the cherry red of her lips and takes Hermione’s order. It’s a calming place, she thinks as she waits for her drink. With no obligation to speak to anyone, it’s a place for people to shut their eyes and be lost to the world for a few blissful hours.

The drink is strong, like she wanted, and soon things start to move in slow frames. She turns to peek at the people in the bar. Every booth is occupied. A teenage couple, her head on his shoulder. A balding, middle-aged man in a brown bomber jacket. A thin woman with long, scraggly hair that curtains her face. The young man the waitress had been flirting with earlier, half-concealed in the low light, a book now in his hand.

She feels compelled to ask him what he’s reading. She always did whenever she saw people reading books in cafes or park benches, but never mustered the courage. It’s the first time she’s seen someone reading in a bar.

 _He’s got nice hands_ , she thinks, strangely mesmerised by the way he’s holding the book up in one hand and turning the pages with a slim thumb. He stretches slightly, shifting in his seat, and when he cracks his neck to one side she catches a glimpse of his angled jaw, the long, sharp line of his nose—

She squints because she must be mistaken. Because there is simply no way _he_ would be sitting here. In a Muggle bar. How much has she had to drink? He must have sensed her staring because he turns, and she whips back around so quickly she has to grab on to the edge of the bar for balance.

Her heart is beating much faster than she would like and she hopes he hasn’t recognised her. She contemplates leaving just as the waitress slides her second drink toward her. She clutches the glass and takes a long, concentrated sip, battling the urge to peek around at him again.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” the waitress says, a gently intrigued look on her face as she wipes a glass with a dirty-looking cloth.

“Sorry, what?”

“I mean, we hardly get newcomers here.”

“Yeah, that’s odd,” she answers distractedly, lowering her voice just in case.

“Not really,” the waitress laughs, retrieving another glass from a soap-filled sink. “Town’s not exactly a thriving tourist attraction. Take it you’re not from here?”

“Hm?”

She looks at Hermione’s face, and then at the way her fingers are gripping the glass.

“Nothing,” she mutters, moving away to stack the glasses on the counter.

Hermione plays with the beads of water on the outside of her glass, fully expecting Malfoy to come up behind her with a snarky comment. _Didn’t know you could drink, Granger_ or _haven’t got any friends on a friday night?_ She’d be ready, though. She’d put him in his place like she always did.

One full song plays. Then two. She’s starting to wonder if he hadn’t recognised her after all. But that was impossible, he’d _seen_ her.

A third song. She steels herself and turns around again. He’s back to reading, the book propped up in his hand like nothing had happened at all.

Strange. Was he ignoring her? Why? Did he think she’d be like the others? No, because then he would have left. Besides, she thought she’d proved herself quite unlike most other people that evening at the Ball.

She takes another long sip, her eyebrows furrowed. Did he think she simply wasn’t worth speaking to? After she’d treated him with a basic respect most people didn’t even think he deserved? The thought makes something clench in her chest.

She knows she will regret this in the morning, and possibly forever but…

_Fuck it._

She grabs her drink and hops off the barstool, her legs feeling like they’re crossing oceans.

His eyes pause in the middle of the page as she appears by his booth. She’s ready for him to scowl at her, or demand that she get out of his sight.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he haltingly raises his eyes to meet hers, almost like a child caught doing something he isn’t supposed to.

It completely throws her off.

“Ah, um...I just saw— what’re you reading?” It makes her want to slap herself.

He cocks an eyebrow at her before closing the book over his thumb and turning the cover toward her.

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

“It is,” he says, his eyes still wary on her.

“Okay.” She realises she has been wringing her hands and drops them uselessly to her sides.

“Is there something you want?” he asks quietly, evenly.

“Well, no, I— I was just surprised to see you…” she glances around the bar. “...here.”

A deep frown etches itself over the plains of his face. “Did you know I’d be here?”

“What? No, I— it’s purely coincidence. Why would you ask me that?”

His eyes are narrowed, searching. “Because it’s only ever Muggles who come to this bar.”

“And that means I _followed_ you in here?”

“It’s possible,” he says, his eyes still hard as chips of stone.

“Well, I didn’t,” she responds, but it doesn’t look like he is ready to believe her. “Why would I do something like that?”

This seems to give him pause, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he puts the book down next to his drink. Eyes still wary on her, he tilts his head toward the seat opposite him.

She hesitates for a second and then stiffly slides into the booth. For a while neither of them say anything.

He’s dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie. The lines around his eyes look harsher under the dim lights than they did the evening of the Ball. His hair is pulled back in a messy knot behind his head. If not for how shockingly blond it is, she might never have noticed him at all.

“You’re the first witch or wizard I’ve seen here,” he says after a thick silence.

Her eyebrows crease as she recalls what he told her at the Ball. “Is that why you’re here, because...?” She isn’t exactly sure of the words she should use.

He doesn’t answer, but simply watches her as though she might spring up at any moment and send a curse flying in his direction.

His gaze feels hot on her face and she looks down at the glass in her hand. She brings it to her lips, if only to have something to do while he stared at her like that.

A question starts to shove its way to the front of her mind, like an unruly drunk in a crowd.

“I’ve got to ask,” she says, putting her glass down and leaning forward. “And normally I wouldn’t but… does this mean you’ve— uh, that you feel... differently toward Muggles now?”

It shouldn’t be such a surprise. They’re Unforgivables, in exile from the magical world. The only option they have is the Muggle one. But this is Malfoy, and things are not adding up in her head.

He stays silent.

“I didn’t mean—”.

“Can I get anyone a refill?” The waitress comes up next to Malfoy, smoothing her hands along her pinstripe dress. “You’ve barely touched your drink, Draco.”

“Have you come to check on me, Astrid?” he smiles back at her, his features immediately softening in a way that makes him look like a totally different man.

She drops her eyes to her shoes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “‘Course I did. Got to make sure all my customers are happy.”

“Outstanding job so far,” he smirks with a glance around the bar.

“Shut up,” she chuckles, flicking him on the shoulder. Her eyes hover briefly over Hermione.

“Friend of yours?”

“Eh, sort of,” Malfoy says, without looking in Hermione’s direction. “Someone I knew a long time ago at school.”

“That’s what I like about places like this. The people you end up meeting,” Astrid says, her gaze lingering on him as he smiles down at the glass in his hand. “Well, I’ll leave you alone. Just call me if you need anything,” she nods lightly at him and turns away.

Hermione waits until Astrid is out of earshot. “I don’t believe it.”

He rubs his eyelids. “Believe what?”.

“You’re _friends_ with Muggles?” Her words are starting to slur.

He stares for a long while at his drink, the ice by now completely melted, as though debating something with himself, then lifts it to his lips.

“Looks like it.”

“But...you hate Muggles.”

“Funny how life turns out, isn’t it?” Something flares behind his eyes but it is gone as soon as it appeared.

Her next question feels like molasses in her mouth. “How- how has it been for you, living among Muggles?”

“I didn’t come here to be interrogated, Granger,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Look, I’m not—” she clears her throat, starting to feel angry at how guarded he’s being. “I’m not secretly working with the _Prophet_ or here on some mission for the Ministry, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just want to understand—”

“Then that’s your problem, isn’t it? Your preconceived notions are not my job to fix.”

“You’re right, you’re right. They’re not. It’s my fault really for assuming you’d always be the same rude, arrogant prat.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. She waits, almost like a fox on a hunt, for a sneering retort, already preparing a string of comebacks.

But he simply picks up his book and starts reading again.

_Okay. So that’s how he wants to do this._

“Just as I suspected, Malfoy. Still just a child inside this silent, brooding type you’re playing aren’t you?”

His face is cool, impassive, his eyes moving back and forth across the page.

“I’m surprised you’re here of all places. I would have thought this place beneath you. Too dirty and grungy, not a house elf in sight. Worlds apart from a fancy manor.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he carries on reading.

“You’re not fooling me, Malfoy. I remember everything you said at the Ball. You had so much to say then. Quit pretending you haven’t got anything to prove.”

Nothing.

 _He asked for it._ “How’s your mother?”

“That’s not fair.” He flips a page.

“What d’you mean not fair?”

“You can’t just bring mothers into the picture, Granger. I’m disappointed.”

“Okay, ha-ha, you know what?” She drains her glass and slams it onto the table. “All I wanted—” she rummages about in her bag for some money and stuffs the notes under her glass “— was to ask you a few simple questions and you went and decided to be a raging prat about it all. So I’m leaving. I don’t actually give a damn about you or your weird nighttime habits.”

His eyes never leave the page as she shifts out of the booth and starts to stalk off.

“You can try again. I’m pretty much here most nights.” ****  
** **

“Right, very funny. You’re crazy if you think I’m _ever_ coming back here,” she scoffs as she heads out the door. **  
**


	4. Four

A month later, she’s back. For some unfathomable reason, she’s back.

Something had changed about him, there was no mistaking it. He talked differently, behaved differently. He even looked different - slightly scruffy, his old vanity faded. Almost ordinary. There was a weariness in his face, and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

It should have made perfect sense. Since Unforgivables were no longer welcome in England’s magical community, the Muggle world was an obvious place for them to get a second chance at life, to start over.

But everyone preferred to assume they had all skipped town entirely, seeking refuge in the magical communities of other countries. A few sensational _Prophet_ articles claimed one or two had been spotted in Muggle towns, but no one really believed them - not unless they were there plotting crimes, of course.

 _They’d rather die than live among Muggles_ , she had thought once.

So to see one of them, _him_ of all people, casually spending a Friday night in a Muggle bar like it was the most normal thing in the world, was puzzling to say the least.

It didn’t matter how many times she tried to convince herself it wasn’t worth it. Pieces of that puzzle kept floating up to the surface of her thoughts every day, as she made notes at work, or waited for the kettle to boil, or tried to fall asleep. And like all unsolved puzzles, it made Hermione restless.

She really didn’t have a choice. She thought she’d wait a month before going back, in case she looked eager.

He's sitting in the same booth tonight, a different book propped up in his hand.

Astrid, who’s absorbedly sketching a cratered blue moon on the chalk wall, peers at her from behind the bar as Hermione makes her way over to him.

“Can I sit here?” she asks.

He regards her with mild surprise, and for a second she is convinced he’s going to decline, but then he nods toward the seat opposite him.

“Thought you said you were never coming back here.” he says as she slides into the booth.

“I wasn’t, initially. But I happened to be in the area tonight and decided to pop in.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I hope you aren’t going to interrogate me again.”

“That...wasn’t an interrogation. I suppose I just couldn’t grasp the fact that you’re...that you’ve had to make some adjustments in your life.”

He frowns slightly and lowers his book onto the table. “It’s not up to you tell me who I hate, or should hate. Not after everything that’s happened,” he says in that strangely quiet, measured way of his.

She draws imaginary circles on the wood of the table with her finger. “And surely you can understand why that’s difficult for me.”

He follows the path her finger is making. “Yeah.”

 

***

 

“Why here, though?”

He shrugs. “It’s quiet, in an old town the world forgot about. The drinks are actually not bad, considering.”

It’s her third Friday in three months in this pub, sitting in a worn leather booth across from Draco Malfoy.

She wonders when it’s going to start feeling wrong.

There are still a million questions in her mind, all of them pushing and shoving their way to the front of the line. But she knows she has to start with the easiest questions, and work her way up to the hard ones.

She sips on her rum and coke.

“How long have you been coming here?”

“Almost a year,” he says plainly, a renewed hardness suddenly falling over his eyes.

 _Okay, wrong question._ “No one really talks to each other here,” she says, trying to steer the conversation in a less prickly direction.

“I prefer it that way. No one bothers me.”

“Oh.” She frowns down at her lap, and an uncomfortable silence passes between them.

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs after a while, shifting forward in his seat. “There was another pub I used to go to before this. Great place, even made a few friends there. Then one night, some bloke who’d clearly had too much to drink starts shouting at everyone not to trust me, and that I’d kill them first chance I got.”

He says this almost too calmly, and his features are stony and unreadable.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. He wanted a fight and I wasn’t about to give him one. So I left, never went back.” He folds his arms to his chest and leans back against the seat.

Every one of his answers adds another ten questions in her mind. She’s never known him to just let his adversaries win. The Malfoy she remembers always found a way to get his revenge. Now, he was allowing them to taunt him, to drive him further and further out to the edges of society.

“Why?’’ she whispers.

“What d’you mean, why?”

“Why did you let him get away with saying those things?”

He sets his lips into straight line and is silent for so long that she thinks he isn’t going to answer her at all.

“You don’t have to—"

“Because I was never going to be able to convince him otherwise,” he answers softly, his eyes meeting hers.

She remembers what he said to her at the Ball.

_We will always be Death Eaters. Always Slytherins._

It isn’t much, but it’s a start.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I'm posting both Chapters 4 and 5 this week because as you can probably tell by now, Chapter 4 is rather short. Thanks to everyone who has been reading/liking/following so far. If you guys wanna holla at me, I'm on tumblr as sandalwoodandpine.


	5. Five

_The ones that hurt most, last longest._

_Time does not bring relief._

_They lurk in the sacred spaces, in the gap between wakefulness and sleep._

_They grow and spread, corrupting the others, until remembering is pain._

 

***

 

The brewing room, circular and covered in black tiles from floor to ceiling, smells faintly of river moss and sulphur. She’s afraid it’s seeped into her clothes, into her skin. As she carefully separates the Fluxweed leaves from its stem, she wonders if she should have been honest with Elias about her real reason for wanting the plant.

_No, I’d just be dragging him into something he doesn’t need to be involved in._

Three measures should be enough, but if not, she’d need to make a note of it.

The potion reacts immediately when she adds the leaves, changing from a clear sea green to a deep indigo, before settling finally into a glimmering blood-orange colour.

_He’d look at me differently. I don’t think I can handle that._

The charm is the tricky part. She tries to clear her head, focusing hard on the incantation she now knows as well as the beating of her own heart, on the march of the words across her tongue. The potion seems to simmer slightly as she utters the words, but when she is done, it is still. It appears to be unchanged, but she can feel the magic start to radiate from its depths.

She won’t know if it works until she tests it.

This is what she likes about potions. You could experiment with them, test them again and again until they were perfect. Spells and charms, on the other hand, are capricious, unstable, almost as if they could smell the fear on their casters.

Things could go horribly wrong when they did.

Her fingers are trembling as she gathers several bottles from a cabinet and fills them up with the potion. If this worked, there would be no going back. The line she had crossed all those months ago would turn into a wall, vast and impenetrable. The thought makes her nauseous.

She locks the bottles back inside the cabinet before thoroughly _scourgifying_ the cauldron as well as her clothes, her skin, her hair. Repeatedly. She has to get rid of the smell.

 

***

 

“So you haven’t really told me,” she says, swishing the ice cube around her mouth with her tongue.

“Told you- what?” he asks, watching the movement of her lips.

“How it’s been like for you, living among Muggles.”

He breaks his gaze and runs his fingers absently through his hair. “Okay,” he finally says, lowering his voice with a glance toward the bar. He waits, watching Astrid as she curves around the bar with his drink in her hand.

“Your usual. Extra salt just how you like it,” she says as she rests it on a coaster.

“You’re brilliant, Astrid,” he smiles and she hums shyly in response, turning quickly away to attend to another customer who’s just shouted for her.

“So, yeah, like I was saying,” Malfoy continues, taking a sip of his drink, a clear liquid with a wedge of lemon and a generous amount of salt encrusting the rim. “Living among Muggles was hard at first. It felt demeaning. That this was our new place. Among the people we used to consider filth.” The glass leaves a light sprinkle of salt on his lips.

“My, and many of my friends’, punishment after the war was house arrest, and that included education in some form. People from the Muggle Liaison Office would come to our houses and teach us about how misunderstood we were about Muggles and Muggle-borns and how little basis there truly was for claiming we were superior to them.”

“Don’t tell me that actually worked?”

He shakes his head. “In fact, it made some people even more convinced that it was all part of a grand ploy to place purebloods firmly under the boot of Muggles and Muggle-borns. Turn the world topsy-turvy. Pansy tried to kill one of the officers.”

“What?”

“Tried to stab him with a wooden splinter. He managed to stop her but the Ministry don’t take too kindly to one of their own almost dying. Especially at the hands of one of us.”

“What happened to her?”

“Azkaban. Seven years.” He clicks his tongue in frustration. “I think she was trying to prove to us that she was still loyal to the cause, that she wasn’t going to let herself get brainwashed.”

He stirs his drink with the little white stick it came with, poking at the lemon slice inside.

 

***

 

After five months, she stops asking herself why she keeps coming back. All she knows is that she’s beginning to understand him, if only a little more. Like an artist chipping determinedly away at a block of ice, she thinks she’s learned him, where his tender spots are, where she could afford to push a bit further, and where he was giving in all of his own accord.

He’s talking about his family, and for the first time, all she has to do is listen and follow the path he is making for her.

“I only started doing it for my mother. She needs some sense of normalcy, something from our old lives she can hold on to. So I picked up where my father, or his paid hands rather, left off and walk into restaurants every day asking if they’d like to buy our wines.”

“What about your father’s old partners?”

“Wanted nothing to do with us, never responded to any of our letters. All they cared about was that he was in prison serving a life sentence and his entire family had become Unforgivables. So I had to rebrand, turn my sights on the Muggle world. They don’t know who we are, or what we’ve done.”

An image of Narcissa Malfoy forms slowly in Hermione’s mind. The last time she remembers seeing her, her face was a porcelain mask, the only unmoving thing in a world that was crumbling to dust all around her.

“Sounds like that would have taken everything out of your mother.”

The edges of his lips curl downward. “It did. I was the one who suggested it, and initially she was scandalised. To her, there was nothing in the world that could be worse. Begging at the feet of Muggles. She refused, of course, so it fell on my shoulders to run things for a while.”

His thumb absently traces a path along the droplets of water that have gathered on his glass.

“The first time I entered a Muggle restaurant, it was pretty surreal. Part of me was expecting someone to run out, screaming at me to fuck off. But instead, the owner invited me inside, asked me some questions about our wine. Turned me down in the end, but I didn’t care. It was the first decent chat I’d had with a stranger in a very long time. And he was a Muggle.”

His words are laced with defiance and a chill runs down her spine as she thinks of the man he once tried so desperately to become.

“Does your father know about all this?”

“Haven’t spoken to him since he was sentenced. He’d have a fit if he knew, though, but he’s in for life, so there is really no point in telling him.”

She exhales slowly, carefully stringing together the words of her next question in her mind.

“You haven’t visited him?”

“He was willing to let me die to prove his loyalty to Voldemort. That’s not a man worthy of love.”

The light catches his hair as he runs his fingers through it, and for a moment it looks as pure and soft as a painting.

 

***

 

He was on his fifth drink of the night, which was a lot, even for him.

But so was she, and the stars Astrid is drawing on the chalk wall look so real it’s like they’re dancing.

“Enough about me.” Malfoy slides his hands across the table until his fingertips are inches from hers. “What’s been up with you, Granger? What do you do these days?”

She hesitates, and for a single, mad instant, imagines how those fingers might feel against her own-

“I work with potions,” she says hurriedly. “It’s for the Ministry so I can’t say much more.”

“That somehow doesn’t surprise me,” he says with a nod. “What sort of potions? Like I could tell anyone even if I wanted to,” he adds at the stern look on her face.

_Oh, what the hell. I don’t need to tell him everything._

“Okay, so,” she licks her lips and leans forward, careful to avoid his hands. “There are actually thousands of diseases, all these different ways people can get ill or hurt. More than we know of at the moment. We try to find remedies for as many as we can, but the problem is that there are people out there who invent new curses just as quickly. It’s like an endless game of catch-up. Though I don’t think we’re doing too badly. A few years ago we created a potion to restore muscle tissue and organs. Helps with severe injuries like splinching. And sometimes we work on curative potions that have horrible side-effects, like Pepper-Up, which cures colds but makes steam come out of the drinker’s ears. You’d be surprised how many potions have horrible side-effects.”

“You’d think magical potions wouldn’t have those problems.”

This makes her laugh and she can swear he looks like he’s pleased with himself.

“You and Weasley still an item?”

_Why does he look so interested?_

“We split up.”

“Shocker.”

“What do you care anyway?”

“I just remember being surprised by it is all. You two were hardly compatible.”

_Great, even Malfoy was able to see it. Wonderful._

“We confused friendship with something more. There were plenty of warning signs but we just couldn’t see them.”

The words spill from her mouth out before she can stop them, scattering like loose marbles all over the table. She tracks Malfoy’s expression, waiting for a cheap insult or a mocking smirk to tug at the corners of lips.

“He was insecure around you, wasn’t he?”

Storm-grey eyes rise from the rim of his glass to meet hers, but there is no condescension or humour in them. Still, she feels provoked, like he has opened a door he isn’t meant to. She holds his gaze for a second, a small frown wrinkling her forehead, and then nods.

“How long did it take you to see that?”

“Too long. We still talk, but it’s not the same.” _Merlin, Hermione, shut up._

“It never is. I think relationships can ruin friendships.”

“Something similar happen to you?” Anything to cast his attention off her sorry love life.

“Well there was Pansy,” he says before draining his glass. “She was clearly in love with me, but I never felt the same way about her. Thought I’d give it a try in sixth year, but it just made even me more miserable than I already was, so I ended it not long after. I admit, I could have done it better, but let’s just say there were other things on my mind that year.”

“I thought you two were an odd couple too.”

The smirk she doesn’t realise she is waiting for appears on his lips then, bringing a softness to his long, angled features. A strange heat tingles in the tips of her ears when he looks at her, and she turns her attentions to the carvings on the tabletop.

“I didn’t know you were noticing me, Granger.”

“How could I not, you never exactly made yourself scarce did you?”

“True, I was a prat, wasn’t I?”

 

***

 

She’s late. Not that she and Malfoy had ever set a time for these monthly crossings-of-paths, but she’s late.

Malfoy isn’t sitting in his usual place by the booth, which strikes her as odd because he was always there before her. She hears soft laughter and turns toward it.

Malfoy and Astrid are standing together by the bar. Astrid’s hand is barely brushing the front of his shirt, her face turned up toward his. They’re both smiling at something he’s said. They’re so close, and in the faint glow of the lights, Hermione can’t tell who moved forward first.

She isn’t sure why she feels like a large stone has been dropped in her chest as she turns back for the door. There’s a heat rising in her cheeks, and she thinks it might be embarrassment from catching them at the wrong moment, or anger at herself for being so stupid to think he’d be waiting for her.

Of _course_ this was going to happen. Astrid was an attractive girl and hadn’t exactly been hiding her feelings for him. Why had she assumed he wouldn’t reciprocate?

She stands on the pavement, digging her hands in her pockets, unsure of whether she should go back in or leave. She doesn’t want to appear bothered by what she’d seen, although it’s becoming harder by the second to ignore the picture that’s searing itself into her mind.

“Granger.”

She’s startled by his voice and makes her best attempt at indifference as she turns to him.

“I was just— uh, getting some fresh air.”

“Right,” he nods, toeing a crack in the pavement.

“You know, I think I might just go home tonight. Don’t feel well. Thought I’d tell you in case you were— but, you probably weren’t, so, I’ll just go—"

“You’re leaving?” he asks, looking up at her.

“Yes,” she says, slightly annoyed at his surprise. “To be honest, I’m not sure I want to do this anymore.”

He takes a tiny step toward her. “What you saw in there, it’s not—I’m not—"

“No, no, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Astrid and me, we’re not—"

“No, really, Malfoy. I _don’t_ care. In fact, I’m starting to think it’s absurd that we’ve let this go on for as long as it has.”

“So do I.”

“Well,” she laughs even as she feels something deflate in her chest. “At least—”

“Come to dinner with me.”

“— we’re both agreed— what?”

He’s looking at her now with an intensity she doesn’t think she’s seen before. “There’s a place I think you’ll really like. Let me take you.”

She crosses her arms. “I don’t think Astrid will like that.”

“I tried to tell you, Granger. There’s nothing going on between me and her.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

“I thought you said you didn’t care.” She swears there is the tiniest of smirks playing on his lips. A warmth is creeping up her neck to the tips of her ears.

“I’ll think about it.”


	6. Six

_Imagine, that at the end of a glorious symphony, comes a dreadful screech._

_How would you remember the symphony?_

_As the fast, unconscious wonder that coursed through your body while you were listening?_

_Or as the story you later tell yourself, the one with the bad ending?_

 

***

 

If someone had told her ten years ago that Draco Malfoy would one day be living among Muggles, she would have laughed in their face. Anyone would have. He had been one of the most arrogant, spiteful, entitled people she knew. He had tormented her, and so many others like her.

But she could also see what the last ten years must have been like for him. She had seen her fair share of signs in storefront windows denying entry to those like him. She had heard the revulsion in people’s voices as they cursed his family’s name. Hate was as familiar to her as winter’s cold.

He was trying hard to survive it, she could see that. Living among Muggles. Estranged from everything he once knew. Life had knocked him down from his gilded throne onto his bare feet, eroded away his smooth, gleaming edges. She would have laughed now if only she didn’t feel a twinge of unease at how bitter and vengeful her world had become.

_Come to dinner with me..._

She finds herself that Friday night, standing nervously across the street from the restaurant he had told her about. It’s another Muggle establishment built into an old brownstone building. The first snow of winter has started to fall and she pulls her coat tight around her dress.

With a steadying breath, she crosses the road toward the door and pushes it open.

The door leads into a room that looks like an outdoor courtyard. Light bulbs are strung across slim black poles that border the space and the polished wood tables are lit by flickering candles. A small maple tree stands in the centre of the room, its gold-green leaves reaching toward the starry ceiling.

Her lips part on a small intake of breath. _It’s beautiful_ , she thinks, even as nervousness begins to flood the pit of her stomach.

“Told you you’d like it,” comes a voice to her left. A new, rather unwelcome sensation flutters in her stomach when she turns to look at him, dressed in a dark blue shirt, his blond hair pushed carelessly to one side, his stubble now thicker, golden-brown on his cheeks and chin.

“Didn’t think you were one for places like this,” she says as nonchalantly as the unwelcome sensation will allow her.

“Normally, no,” he grins. “But it reminds me a bit of Diagon Alley. You know, going through an ordinary brick wall to end up somewhere a little unexpected.”

She feels an unexpected stab in her chest when he says this. _He probably hasn’t been to Diagon Alley in years._

They walk to a table at the far end of the courtyard. A waiter arrives to take their orders. He recommends the specials and their house red.

It’s too odd.

“What are we doing?”

“Already starting with the hard questions. Typical Granger.”

“I’m serious, Malfoy. What is this?”

He sighs. “It’s a restaurant. You know, where people eat?”

“Malf—”

“Ok, let me ask you a question; if you’re so unsure about all this, then why did you come?”

She frowns at him as he leans back in his chair with a weary look on his face. It’s a question she had been turning over and over in her mind.

“I guess I’m still curious,” she says flatly.

“Can’t solve me, can you?” he says with a piercing gaze.

She pauses to choose her words carefully. “Your life these last ten years, the way people are treating you now, this person you’ve become. I could never have predicted any of it. And I tend to be drawn to things I don’t understand. Er—” she prays she isn’t blushing. “I mean, interested in. Or curious. Just curious.” She’s grateful when the waiter shows up with a bottle of wine because the expression on Malfoy’s face is maddening.

She takes a hurried sip. The wine’s strong, with a lingering sweetness in the back of her mouth.

“Your turn. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I told you already.”

“No, Malfoy. This time’s different and you know it.”

“How? The only thing that’s different is that I’ve explicitly asked you to show up this time.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? Why?”

“Bloody hell, Granger,” he sighs loudly, setting down his glass with a clink. “I guess it’s just been a while since somebody from my old life will talk to me without spouting some manner of hate speech at one side or the other. I’m not the only one who’s full of surprises here, alright?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter, a hardness in her voice. “You really think I’d ever use hate speech? Me?”

His gaze slides slowly across her features, from her sharp, questioning eyes down to her  glowering, rose-tinged mouth. “I’d just understand if you did,” he says quietly.

Heat is rising in her cheeks. “That’s rich coming from you, Malfoy. I’ll never forget how horrible those words made me feel. It makes me never want to put another person in the same position.”

“Then you understand why you’re the exception,” he says, still not meeting her eyes. “I wish more people would see it the way you do. But everyone’s still so angry, so insistent on punishing us, reminding us every single day of what we once were. It’s made so many lose hope, even relapse into their old ways.”

She sinks back against her chair, her mind replaying the scenes from the Reunification Ball. The veins straining in Goyle’s neck as he screamed, the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

“Are you talking about Goyle?”

He shakes his head. “Goyle’s been a ghost, truth be told. He was a wreck after Crabbe died, we thought he might lose it. At the end of his house arrest, he decided to just up and leave London to go at it alone. Lost touch with him for years. Then found out he’s been working at a cemetery way up north this whole time.”

“A cemetery?”

“As a gravedigger. Says it’s quiet, that the people who go there just want to be left alone.”

There is a long, uncomfortable pause as they each sip their drinks.

“What about the others?” she asks tentatively, watching his expression for any sign of impatience or discomfort.

“Let’s see,” he says a touch irreverently, and begins counting them by hand. “Pansy’s serving seven years in Azkaban for attempted murder, but I’ve already told you that. Zabini fucked off to Italy and got married to some girl, an old family friend. Lots of them did, actually. Leave for Europe, I mean. Nott, Bulstrode, Montague, people who were either affiliated in some way with the Death Eaters or simply known to have harboured blood prejudices. They tried integrating here after the war but no one was willing to give them a chance.”

He takes a long, pensive sip from his glass. “Flint, you remember him? He got the worst of the death threats. Some coward cursed him on the street, left a huge burn mark across his chest. He still hasn’t been able to walk unaided.”

Hermione’s eyebrows wrinkle as she thinks of Flint, bulky and grimacing. She had heard about the occasional acts of violence, but no one ever talked about them. They simply happened, and people would just go about their days, as casually as if there had been an increase in the price of milk.

“Barely mentioned in the _Prophet_ , of course,” sneers Malfoy. “The son of a former Death Eater clearly isn’t deserving of the slightest shred of sympathy. So, I don’t think many of them have quite had a change of heart about Muggle-borns.”

He finally brings his eyes up to meet hers, and they are like two pools of icy water. “See now why I wanted to see you again?”

She scoffs, her lips forming a tiny half-smile. “You make me sound like some sort of saint.”

He just smirks and refills both their glasses as the waiter arrives with their food.

“Why didn’t you leave England, then?”

“For Mother. She misses my father desperately, hardly leaves the cottage, or meets people—”

“Wait. You said cottage?”

"Yeah, we sold the Manor.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. It started losing its value fast after the war, no one wanted anything to do with the place. I thought better to sell it while we still could. Still fetched a decent sum all things considered. Used the money to buy a cottage in the country for Mother and an apartment for me, among a few other things. She was absolutely incensed at the idea at first but she was in no position to maintain the whole damn place by herself and eventually gave up. I think this new arrangement suits us far better. Privacy, anonymity, everything an exile dreams of.”

She feels like a tiny weight has been dislodged from somewhere deep in her heart, knowing that the place that had once symbolized pureblood supremacy, that had once served as home to Voldemort himself, was now no more than a slightly overpriced hunk of land to be carved up and traded hands. So much of Malfoy, in her mind, had been entwined with the idea of the Manor; proud, regal, dominating.

When she steals a long glance at him, it’s almost like she is seeing him for the first time again; his hair a little messier than usual, the light scruff on his face, sleeves rolled carelessly up to his elbows.

“You say all this as though it doesn’t bother you.”

“Of course it bothers me, Granger,” he says simply. “I’ve just learned to live with it.”

“And you’re happy living like this for the rest of your life?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow.

He considers this for a moment. “It’s just the least worst situation, given how everything is. Away from the death threats, the suspicion, the hostile glares and whispers, the feeling that you aren’t welcome. It’s peaceful.”

“But don’t you want to do something about it?”

He laughs dryly. “I think you do.”

She crosses her arms. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s just who you are, isn’t it? That need to fix things, stand up for what’s right. Good old Gryffindor chivalry.”

She pinches the edge of the white tablecloth and absently rolls it about between her fingers, feeling his gaze on her from across the table like a slow, radiating heat.

“I’m not sure what I want,” she says quietly. “I was furious when I got Slughorn’s letter, when I read that they had abolished the Houses. I thought it was mad. But then I look around at what people have become and think… maybe it had to happen.”

He doesn’t say anything and instead slowly drains his glass, ruby beads rolling past his lips.

They sit in silence, watching the flame of the candle burn slowly down its wick. The sky is vast and inky blue above them and the quiet dark settles over her like a blanket. She finds herself staring at his eyes a lot and thinking they look like waves crashing around a rock.

The waiter brings them a second bottle and this time the wine feels smoother, pleasantly warm as it makes its way down her throat.

They talk about their lives, fill in the gaps of the intervening years, every detail sharpening in each of their minds a portrait of who the other has become. She had always assumed Draco Malfoy would grow up untouched by the humdrum realities of other people’s lives, that no matter how desolate or wretched the outside world became, there would always be a hand to turn his cheek away, a whisper in his ear to cloak the noise. And he would stay the same, shielded on all sides like a priceless work of art.

She had hated that about him, hated that some people got to live a life on a different plane from everybody else.

How wrong she had been.

One by one, people start to leave the restaurant. She feels a pang of reluctance to leave this place, it’s the first time in months she’s felt relaxed. It’s like all her troubles have agreed to hide away, if just for the briefest of moments.

It doesn’t feel like they’ve been there for four hours as they get up to leave.

Outside, the ground is hidden under a thick layer of snow and a cold wind stings her cheeks.

_It did feel a little like a door to Diagon Alley,_ she thinks.

He is standing close to her now. Under his jacket, his shirt ripples lightly in the winter air, over the taut lines of his chest as it rises and falls. Her eyes travel up his long, pale neck, to the dark golden hairs that frame his jaw. His lips are parted slightly and his eyes are dark and hooded as they linger on her lips.

“I hated you,” she whispers, as he takes a step closer. The light of the moon is dappled across his eyelashes.

“And now?” he asks, his voice deep and soft as his hand rises to brush her hip. Her stomach feels momentarily weightless at his touch, and she can feel his desire hot against her skin as he tightens his fingers against her body, in the way his eyebrows draw together like surrender.

His lips are warm and tender as they press against hers. It is like a match has been struck inside her body, sending a gradual wave of heat up her chest, neck, face. She counts three heartbeats before he pulls away and stares at her, his eyes nervously searching hers.

She thinks she is trembling, still able to feel the ghost of his kiss on her lips. Maybe it is the film of alcohol coating her brain, maybe it is how broken each of their worlds have become, how so little makes sense anymore, but she finds herself rising on her toes, sure that in this moment, she wants to feel his lips on hers again.

He exhales in a rush of relief, returning her kiss with greater insistence than before, his eyes squeezing shut. His arm snakes around her lower back as he tilts his head to capture her mouth more fully with his. Her hands rise to his sides, her fingertips tracing a slow path up the tops of his arms to his shoulders, before spidering down over his chest. She almost gasps at the shift of his muscles beneath her fingers but then he parts his lips and takes her bottom lip into his mouth so suddenly and smoothly that he is all she can feel anymore. His tongue glides over her lower lip and she opens her mouth a little wider, a tiny moan bubbling from inside her that she cannot suppress. Her cheeks flame in embarrassment but his arm clenches around her waist at the sound and he tugs her tighter against his body, sealing the inches between them.

His tongue pushes deeper into her mouth. He tastes like wine - sweet, giddying. She fists his hair, her heart hammering against his chest as she runs her tongue over his, before slipping it delicately inside his mouth. He moans into her, a deep, rough sound, and it makes her vaguely aware of the wetness between her legs.

She can feel the urgency building in his movements, in the tight curling of his fingers in her hair, the push of his tongue against hers, the rock of his hips as he turns and guides her body backward until she feels her back hit a coarse brick wall.

He lowers his mouth to the corner of hers, grazing and nipping down to her jawline, and lower still until he reaches her neck.

“Oh…fuck,” she breathes, screwing her eyes shut at the sensation. He brings his hand up to her shoulder and trails his fingers slowly down until he reaches her breast.

She turns her face towards his and brushes her lips against his ears, desperate to feel the crash of his lips against hers as he fondles her breast and flicks his thumb across the fabric of her coat over her nipple, but his mouth remains stubbornly fastened to her neck. She groans, her head tipping against the wall and her fingers coming up to bunch in his hair.

“I’m going to Apparate us.” He sounds breathless, and his voice is rough and muffled against her neck.

"Hmm...wh—  what? Where?” Her own voice is airy and trembling, and she doesn’t recognise it in that moment.

“It’s safe, I promise.” He plants a small kiss on her neck before raising his head to look at her, a reassuring look in his eyes. When she doesn’t respond, he brings both his hands up to her face and kisses her so slowly and deeply that it is like the ground has disappeared beneath her feet.

When he pulls away to look at her again, she nods. He grabs her hand and leads her around the back of the building, until he is sure they are out of sight before his hand tightens around hers and she feels a different type of tug behind her navel. The world spins wildly for a few moments, and she cannot make sense of anything except the blood pounding behind her ears and the feel of his hand still firmly clasped in hers, until her feet slam onto solid ground again.

It takes her a couple of seconds to make sense of where they are now. A shaft of silver moonlight peers between a set of high grey curtains and in the dimness she can make out a large white wool carpet, tall grey cabinets, framed photographs, and a sprawling bed with dark, slightly rumpled sheets.

“Are— are we in your bedroom?”

She hears the rustle of his coat hitting the floor as he speaks. “Did you want to continue in public? Because I can—”

“Continue—” The reality of what they are doing collides into her then, and her mind fills with thoughts of parted lips and bare skin and tangled limbs on _his_ bed. “—right, yes, the thing we were doing...”

“Stop talking dirty to me, Granger.”

“I’m not—” She can feel the smirk on his lips they crash onto hers, one hand grabbing the back of her head and the other undoing the loops on her coat.

“Mm—” she starts to say something, but his head dips again to the spot between her neck and shoulder and her words are lost on her lips.

She moans without hesitation now, a breathless, lilting sound as her coat falls to the floor. Her hands rake up his back and she tilts her head away from his to give him more access to her skin. He walks her slowly towards the bed, his mouth still doing wonderful things to her neck, and when the back of her legs bump against the foot of the bed, his hands fly to the zipper on the back of her dress.

His mouth finds hers again as he drags the zipper down her back, and she gasps at the cold against her shoulder blades, the ridges of her spine. His tongue is lapping and curling more desperately against hers now and she wants nothing more than for the soft curves and arcs of her body to memorise the hard, firm lines of his. The zipper reaches the top of her bum and he tugs her dress down to the ground where it falls with a sigh. His gaze feels almost tactile as it descends her body. The tips of her ears begin to burn and she moves closer to him to hide herself but he steps back to give himself an uninhibited view of her.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and something in the crack of his voice makes her heart catch in her throat.

She draws her fingers from his back, where she realises they have been clenching onto fistfuls of his shirt and brings them around to his chest. He’s still staring at her, she realises, as though waiting for her undress him. She brings herself up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his cheek and just below his ear as she pushes his buttons through their slots one by one. His breathing quickens and it excites her to think of the effect she is having on him. When his shirt drops from his shoulders, she tilts her head slightly and traces her lips and tongue across his neck.

She feels his moan reverberate throughout her body as his hands slide down her legs to hook behind her knees. He lifts her up easily, spreading her legs to straddle his hips. A tiny whimper slips past her lips when she feels the cold metal of his belt buckle press against the inside of her thigh. She clings closer to his body at the loss of sensation beneath her feet and runs her hands across his back, feeling the rise and fall of his bare chest against hers.

She feels his grip around her tighten as he lowers her slowly onto the bed. The sheets are silky and cool against her skin and images of tangled limbs flash across her mind again. His hands move to unhook the clasp of her bra, removing and tossing it over the side of the bed.

He looks breathtaking to her then, his blond hair falling over his eyes and his body over hers, bathed in the silver glow of the moon. Her eyes try to take in everything, his chest, the muscles of his abdomen, the deep lines disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

Without a sound, he dips his head to her breast and takes her nipple into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue. She purrs and arches her back at the feeling, her thighs locking harder against his hips. His other hand closes around her breast, squeezing it gently, circling the pad of his thumb over her nipple.

For a brief time, she can only hear the sounds of sheets rustling beneath their bodies, the whisper of skin on skin, and their breaths, rising fast and shallow into the air. Something inside her starts to tighten, taut as the string of a bow.

Her heartbeat speeds up as she reaches down to his belt, managing to release the clasp after a few tries. She pauses then and bites her bottom lip, feeling his eyes on hers as he lifts his head from her breast.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes are hooded and his voice is like thick silk.

“I just...I don’t—” She can’t find the right words to express the jumble of thoughts in her brain, but then she finds she doesn’t have to all the time with him, because his lips are back on her body, burning a path down her stomach, her hip, and when he kisses the inside of her thigh her thoughts still.

As his fingers curl around her underwear and slide them down her legs, she swears he must be able to hear the pounding of her heart against her chest. She squeezes her eyes shut when she feels his breath between her legs and his stubble brush against her thigh, and when his mouth meets her body it is like stars are shooting behind her eyelids.

“Oh...god,” she moans, arching her back and bucking her hips so hard at the feeling of his tongue inside her that he has to grab her hips and pin her back down on the bed. Her toes curl and her fingers fist the sheets as he pushes his tongue deeper inside of her, stroking and circling in time to her every sigh and moan. All sensation is rushing south and she wants him so desperately now, to fill her in a way his tongue cannot.

“Draco...”

He lifts his head to look at her, and her stomach flips at the sight of his eyes, dark and intense, the tinge of red in his cheeks and the slight sheen on his lips.

She doesn’t need to say more, because he is back on top of her, his lips crashing onto hers. Their hands meet on the waistband of his trousers and underwear and his fingers ease under hers as she pushes it down, using her feet to yank it lower and raising her knees to straddle his hips again.

He deepens his kiss as he pushes himself inside her slowly, by fractions. She throws her head back against the bed with a groan as he pulls out and enters her again, sinking deeper. He repeats this a few times, pushing deeper inside her each time until she slowly get accustomed to him and learns to rock her hips in time with his.

They moan into each other’s mouths when he fully enters her, using his arms to steady himself over her head. She murmurs his name through their kiss, now distracted and messy and wild, and her voice sounds distant, like someone else’s echo.

The edges of her vision begin to blur when he starts to thrust harder and faster and when his head drops to her shoulder she thinks he is swearing but she cannot hear, cannot sense anything other than the feeling of being filled to the brim again and again and again.

She feels his hands on her legs and yelps when he throws one over each of his shoulders, his arms locked on either side of her head as he repositions himself. She doesn’t care what she must look like to him now, his eyes on her as he moves even deeper inside her than he could before. Her heels dig into his back as his thrusts get faster, his breath hitches and the feeling between her legs builds and builds until—

A broken cry escapes her lips and her body shudders against him. He thrusts into her quickly a few times before he collapses slick on top of her with her groan, his breaths fast and ragged against her neck.

They lie like this in silence for a few seconds, his cheek on her chest, her mouth brushing the top of his head, their limbs tangled in each other’s. Exhaustion tugs on her eyelids, the soft mattress under her moulding itself around her body. He lifts his head to plant a sleepy half-kiss on her neck before he rolls off her and drifts into a deep slumber.


	7. Seven

****_ Memory is the anchor, wrought all from iron, that moors a ship in harbour,  _

_ Secure, strong, the tides cannot move her. _

_ But from the anchor rises a chain,  _

_ And as the horizon glows and distant shores call her name, _

_ The tides cannot move her. _

 

***

 

It’s around five in the morning when her eyes groggily peel open. At least, she thinks it’s five, the way pale blue light is peeking through the curtains. Then there is a brief moment of panic, when she thinks she must have fallen asleep at the office, but then she remembers.

The restaurant, the wine, the way his lips had felt on hers, the way they felt on every part of her body he had kissed...

He’s still asleep when she turns, breathing gently, his face soft and unperturbed.

It was drunken lust, that was all. He was clearly lonely, and shaken up by the events of the Reunification Ball, and, like he had admitted, she was the only one who would talk him. As for her, well, that was clear, her life had gone completely off the rails and this was her way of coping, of feeling something good again.

She has to leave, there’s no two ways about this. There is no possible conclusion to this scenario that won’t involve some amount of awkwardness, embarrassment or regret. She needs to get ahead of it.

She blinks several times in the dark, trying to remember where her clothes are. She runs her hand over the silk sheets and manages to locate her bra near the foot of the bed. Her dress had to be nearby, maybe on the floor. Trying not to wake him, she crawls to the end of the bed, sticking one leg on the floor for balance and blindly grasps around for her dress.

“You’re so elegant when you sneak, Granger.” Even thick with sleep, there is something alluring in his voice that she can’t shake off.

“Um—” She hadn’t heard him wake up. Turning around and sitting upright, she suddenly becomes strangely aware of her nakedness. 

She quickly tries to think of what to say. Wouldn’t he have done the same if this was her apartment, taken off as soon as he could? 

“I didn’t think there was any reason to stay,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Ouch, well that didn’t hurt at all,” he says, rising into a sitting position, his back against the headboard. 

She pauses, examining his features as well as she can in the dark. “I just thought you might not want me to.”

He scratches his jaw in thought for a second. “Did you ever stop to consider that if sex was the only thing I wanted, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of asking you, of  _ all  _ people?” 

They stare at each other, and a small laugh bubbles from her lips at the absurdity of the thought. It makes him grin and shake his head in mock despair.

“Unless you want to leave, of course.”

It’s a little unexpected, how honest and vulnerable he’s letting himself be with her and it’s catching her totally off guard. Whatever this is, a temporary break from his loneliness or a chance for her to forget her pain, she thinks she can let it last a little longer.

“I’ll stay,” she whispers.

“Come here, then.” He pushes aside the covers on her side of the bed, which still bears the faint outline of her body. She crawls toward him and when she’s close enough, he cups her cheek and lowers her mouth onto his. 

She lets herself melt into the slow, deep rhythm of his kiss. This time it’s different, the alcohol in her blood has subsided, and she’s able to feel him against her skin with greater clarity. It’s like gazing into a room after a party, after all the lights and frills have been taken down, leaving her with just four empty walls. 

Her hand feathers over his cheek, her fingers running over his forehead, the long line of his nose, the rough stubble on his jaw. She crosses one leg over his body and comes to a kneeling position above him, tilting his chin upward as she kisses him more fiercely. His hands press on her back and one slips down to cup her bum, before sliding between her legs. 

With a soft moan against his lips, she lowers herself onto him, and they both breathe fast and heavy against each other as she rocks languorously against him.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groans and latches his mouth onto her neck, sucking harder, his teeth sure to leave marks on her skin. She wraps her arms around his shoulders as she moves faster on top of him, wanting him to feel as much of her as possible, to make him feel as good as he did for her.

The dawn finds them this way, two people in each other’s arms, bodies pressed close, hairlines damp with sweat, hands skimming and clutching, backs arching and winding with every touch, senses unravelling all around them for the second time that night.

She closes her eyes as he whispers her name, and an image of his face, softly lit in dawn light, burns into the backs of her eyelids.

 

***

 

Her hand grips the vial in her pocket as she steps inside a dark, circular room with twelve black doors, lit by a cool blue light. A deep chill creeps into her bones as she thinks of the last time she was here, but she forces the memory from her mind, concentrating hard on the task at hand.

The second door on her right opens soundlessly before she can even touch it and swings ajar to reveal a large rectangular chamber. An enormous glass tank stands in the middle of the chamber, pearly-white brains floating like jellyfish in deep green liquid. She remembers white tendrils coiling tightly around limbs, ribbons unravelling like rolls of film....

Her stomach rolls uncomfortably again. Men and women are seated at desks arranged in several rows surrounding the tank. Some wear thick glasses and rubber gloves, delicately examining specimens of brains in front of them. Others stand close to the tank with clipboards, observing closely the movements of the brains inside the green liquid, the images that dance across the ribbons of thought.

A dark-haired, bespectacled woman standing near the door nods tersely at her. Being Head of Research had its perks.

She heads for the back of the chamber where there are several more black doors, each embossed with cursive, golden letters. She steps through the one which bears the word “ARCHIVES.”

The air in here is still, cold and utterly soundless. It looks very similar to the Hall of Prophecy, with rows upon rows of towering shelves. But instead of orbs, they carry brains, each entombed inside a clear glass bell-jar.

These are the brains of people who had given themselves to magical study after their deaths. There must be at least a thousand perfectly preserved brains in here, each one a deep repository of knowledge and memory, each one a record of a live lived, of relationships come and gone. A thousand brains and a million different stories.

Hermione swallows, try hard to suppress the worry that is curdling in her stomach. Number 507. She has to find it.

Each shelf is marked with a range of numbers, 1-200, 201-400, and so on. She walks for what seems like a considerable distance before she finds the right shelf number. She turns in, eyes scanning the brains for the one she wants, her mind working furiously to figure out what she should do next.

Number 507. 

She reaches out and gingerly lifts the jar from the shelf. The brain sits serenely inside the jar, giving off a faint silvery glow.

She walks to the back of the hall where there are five more doors, each displaying the same golden cursive letters as the ones outside, and opens one of them.

The walls in this room are lined with heavy, leather-bound books. A large work table stands in the middle of the room with a silver dish suspended above it. A rather unsettling, metallic mask of a human face sits in front of the dish, its eyes closed and mouth open. Next to the table is a shallow stone basin, carved with ancient runes symbols. A silvery, mist-like liquid swirls about inside.

She hoists the bell-jar onto the metal dish, which dips slightly from the weight, but quickly assumes its original position. With nervous hands, she pulls the vial from her pocket, the blood-orange potion locked safely inside. She removes the stopper from the vial, the pungent smell of river-moss and sulphur almost immediately penetrating her nostrils, and tips the potion into the open mouth of the mask.

With bated breath, she waits for the potion to take effect. Seconds pass. Almost a minute seems to go by before, slowly, a thick blood-orange mist descends from the top of the jar onto the brain inside it. The colour runs along the grooves on the surface of the brain like miniature rivers and the thing seems to come alive for a moment, pulsing, glistening, before all the colour is absorbed inside it and it becomes still once again.

The glass surrounding the brain seems to ripple for a second, shimmering like the skin of a bubble, before vanishing. She takes her wand from her robe and lightly touches it to the surface of the brain. A hot, almost painful, electric feeling thrums down her arm the moment the tip of the wand comes into contact with the brain, but she knows she must hold it there, to draw the memory out.

A silvery substance glows beneath the surface of the brain, like a dazzling shoal of fish under a frozen lake.The substance follows the tip of her wand as she withdraws it. With her other hand, she extracts an empty vial from her pocket and gently guides the memory into it.

She can feel the beginnings of a headache building behind her eyes. She carries the vial containing the memory to the pensieve and pours it delicately in, watching the silvery wisps dance and swirl.

“Okay, okay, deep breaths. You can do this.” She squeezes her eyes shut and submerges her head into the pensieve.

The room collapses all around her in white smoke and a new one starts to form.

_ She sees herself in the living room of a small house, sitting on a mustard yellow sofa. It’s an old house, with faded patterned wallpaper, antique wooden furniture and more than a few doilies. _

_ There are several framed photographs along the walls of an elderly couple. The shelves on the wall are empty.  _

_ So far so good. _

_ An old woman emerges from behind a bead curtain hanging over an archway. _

_ “I made these sugar cookies for you, dear” she says in feeble, wavering voice, placing the tray of cookies down on the coffee table. _

_ “Thank you, Mrs. Livingston. You really shouldn’t have taken the trouble.” _

_ “Nonsense, dear. The potions you prescribed have been working wonders. I plan to take full advantage of my mobility while I still have it.” _

_ “I’m very happy to hear that,” Hermione smiles. “No more pains, I take it?” _

_ “I get the occasional pain flare at night, but it’s a lot better than what it used to be.”  _

_ “That’s good. Please call me the minute anything changes. As I said, it’s a new method, so we cant be sure how long the effects will last.” _

_ “I’m not long for this world, dear. I’ll try anything so long as it doesn’t kill me,” she wheezes with laughter. _

_ The old woman turns to a empty spot on the living room floor and smiles sadly. She stares at it for at least a minute before turning back to Hermione. _

_ “How are the cookies, dear?” _

_ “They’re delicious, Mrs. Livingston.” Hermione’s voice has become slightly strained. _

_ “Please, dear, call me Maria.” _

_ “Maria...Maria...” Where just moments ago was an empty spot on the floor, now sits a man. He appears to be in his mid-forties and is hunched over what looks like a wooden birdhouse. A faint, blood-orange light shimmers all around his body. _

_ No...no...it was supposed to work... _

_ The man smacks the birdhouse on the floor several times, muttering to himself.  _

_ “He made those, you know?” the old woman smiles proudly Hermione. “He was a masterful craftsman, even owned his own firm. I thought they’d spare a half-blood like him, but there is no reasoning with monsters…” _

_ Objects are starting to appear slowly around the house, each surrounded by an orange shimmer. A cuckoo clock on the wall, a painted jewellery box on the mantelpiece, and small birdhouses, at least ten of them, all lining the formerly empty shelves along the wall. The photographs on the wall are shimmering faintly too. A young, beaming man has appeared in all of them. _

_ No...it’s all gone wrong… _

_ “Is there nothing you can do, dear?” The old woman is looking at Hermione with tears in her eyes. _

_ “I’m so sorry. There are researchers working on it, but it’s incredibly complex magic.” _

_ The old woman nods sadly. “I’m just afraid that this is how I will remember him. That’s the thing about death. You remember the pain at the end, and not all the beauty that came before it.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeves of her dress. _

_ Out, out...get out now… _

_ The scene starts to dissolve and Hermione feels herself being tugged upward. _

_ “I think I’m already starting to forget what he was like before…”  _

Hermione pulls herself out of the Pensieve, gasping for breath, her eyes wide and disbelieving, her mouth twisted in anguish.

“It was supposed to work...”

Her lips are quivering and tears pool in her eyes as she stuffs the vials and her wand back into her pocket. The bell-jar has sealed itself back around the brain and she carefully takes it down from the metal dish.

She bites on her tongue, because its a pain she can focus on, a physical pain that can distract her from the one raging inside her chest. She heads out of the room, back past the towering shelves where she returns the bell-jar, and out of the main chamber. 

The elevator ride to the Atrium is a blur. She barely notices the people that stream in and out, the hum of banal chatter by her ears. She crosses the Atrium toward the Apparition point as though in a trance, focusing hard on the only place she wants to be right now.

She sways slightly on her feet as she lands in her living room. There has to be some rum left, she thinks, rummaging frantically about her kitchen cabinets. The bottle she pulls out has about half of its contents remaining and she gratefully unscrews the cap and lifts the bottle to her lips.

The drink burns its way down her throat and she lets out a groan of relief.

Then the tears fall. They heave and shudder up her chest and she doesn’t think she has cried like this in months, not since that day. They streak her face, dripping down her chin onto her lap as she curls herself tight at the edge of her sofa. She drinks in large gulps, desperate to numb the pain, to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. She’s so tired, every ounce of energy she thinks she has left utterly spent and she wants it to stop.  _ Please let it stop… _

She drains the last drops of rum, the exhaustion soaking through her muscles and into her bones. Her head droops and the bottle falls from her fingers with a heavy thud on the living room carpet. 


	8. Eight

 

_She thinks she’s packed everything, but it won’t hurt to go over them in her head one more time. Blanket? Check. Book? Check. Chocolate milk? Check. Egg sandwich in case she gets hungry? Check. She’s all set._

_She’d only read about Italy in books. She couldn’t wait to see Mount Vesuvius, it was over 25,000 years old, and lake Como_ — _did you know it was bigger than Paris? And also the Colosseum and all the cathedrals and-_

 _“_ — _can’t be right, can it? I’d feel better if we just check.”_

_“Fine, it shouldn’t take too long.”_

_“Hermione, sweetheart?”_

_“Yes, mum?”_

_“Your father and I need to check something about our tickets, will you wait right here for us until we come back? Promise we won’t be long.”_

_“Ok, mum.”_

_“That’s a good girl.”_

_She watches her parents disappear behind a forest of legs and decides to pass the time by thinking up facts about Italy in her head._

_...Rome was founded in 753 BC…_

_....Italy’s shaped like a boot…_

_...It’s longest river is the river Po…_

_Her parents are taking longer than she expected. Maybe there’s a long queue at the ticket-checking place. The time on the huge clock says, ten past...eleven? There’s really a lot of people here, pulling big suitcases behind them. Sometimes a shrill whistle goes off and it makes her jump._

_....San Marino and Vatican City are two small countries inside Italy..._

_...Vatican City is the smallest country in the world…_

_...Italy is bordered by Austria, Slovenia, Switzerland and...and..._

_It’s been ages now, where have her parents gone? Did they forget about her? Are they already on the train to Italy? What would she do if they had? Well, they took one of the small trains to get here. Maybe she could take the same train backwards and go back home. But she didn’t have a key for the front door. She could try asking Mrs. Collins if she could stay at hers for a few days until her parents came back. And then_ —

_“Sorry for taking so long, love. Come on now, train’s leaving in five minutes.”_

_She nods vigorously, and tears are stinging the backs of her eyes, but she won’t let them fall._

 

***

 

She’s starting to know his apartment as well as her own. The feel of his bedside lamp switch under her fingers. The functions of all the little taps and faucets in his shower. The titles of the books on his shelves. The way the sea of fog swells around the man in the painting on his living room wall.

It’s quite a large apartment for one person, located at the top floor of a small, nondescript building on the outskirts of London. It has dark hardwood floors with white walls and furniture that ranges in colour from white and cream to charcoal grey. He’s decorated it minimally, tables and countertops mostly bare except for a few books and candleholders, a smattering of paintings and framed photographs on the wall. The windows are an exception to the simplicity of the space, spanning almost from floor to ceiling but she notices he always has them fully drawn.

She’s starting to know him a little better too. The way he shivers whenever her fingers track down his stomach. The way he presses his face to the crook of her neck every time his body shudders its release.

Sometimes he took her hard, still half-clothed, against the wall or on the sofa, barely able to wait until they could reach his bedroom. His nails would rake the back of her thighs as he hiked them around his hips and she’d cry out from the sheer force of his desire.

Other times he looked at her like she was made of the most fragile glass, his lips and fingers so tender and patient on her body that she almost wept.

“The petition failed,” she says, brows furrowed as she reads the front page of the _Prophet_ , curled up against the arm of his sofa. A large photo reveals a group of people in a shabby office, pacing about in thought or sitting despondently on rickety armchairs.

“What petition?” he asks absently from the kitchen, amidst the clinking of mugs and silverware.

“The MUMPS one. They were trying to petition the Ministry to expand non-discrimination laws to include former criminal status.” She sighs, remembering the black-haired woman who had stopped her on the street. “They tried to get me to sign.”

“Did you?” he asks, walking over with two mugs of tea in his hands. She scoots over to let him sit in the corner of the sofa and leans against his chest.

“I just waved her off, like she was some sort of fly.” The woman is visible in the photo, staring down at her hands.

He nuzzles his nose in her hair. “It was a huge ask. I don’t think people are ready for that, let alone some lawmakers in the Ministry. No way they’d jeopardise their cushy jobs by even going near such a thing.”

“That’s what I thought. That it would all be for nothing. What if that’s what other people had been thinking too, and they didn’t sign not because they were opposed to the idea, but because they didn’t think it would matter anyway?”

“I think that’s entirely possible.”

She reads on. “‘We were aiming for at least one thousand signatures,’ said James Davies, President of the predominantly youth-run organisation. ‘We managed around four hundred in the end, which is far below what we had hoped for, but at least it’s four hundred people that want to see change happen. And we don’t think that’s nothing.’

“‘We don’t know yet what we’re going to do next, but we know it has to be big, something to make more people sit up and pay attention.’ When pushed for further details on what he meant, Davies declined to respond.”

“Well I’m already looking forward to that,” he says with a chuckle.

“Hm.” She folds the paper and puts in down on the table in front of her.

“Not intrigued by Davies’ cryptic message?”

She rests her head against his shoulder and looks up at him, wondering if he’s more disheartened by this news than he’s letting on.

“Some people aren’t going to like it,” she says, tracing his chest with her finger.

“Of course they aren’t. You heard them at the Ball. Civilised society is no place for people like me. That would be too risky.”

“What’s risky is continuing to treat them like criminals even when they’ve had a clean record since. Denying them jobs, refusing to give them a chance and help them re-integrate, that’s only going to make things worse.”

“You should become their new spokeswoman,” he says, grinning.

“Oh, shut up. Still doesn’t mean I’m completely sold on the idea.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep meeting here in secret, won’t we?” he purrs into her ear, pushing her down on the sofa until he is on top of her, his lips teasing against her neck.

Sometimes he says things like this that remind her of how crazy it is that they’ve started seeing each other. How completely stupid and wrong. He isn’t welcome in her world. There is no way he’d be allowed back in, not for a long time. The article staring at her from the tabletop has confirmed that.

And yet, here she is, hands softly dragging up his back as he starts to undo the buttons on her top, his lips following the trail of skin he is slowly revealing. It makes her want to hold on to him even tighter, squeeze her thighs harder against his hips.

And maybe that’s how it is for him too, because she isn’t expecting it when his hands fly to her shorts and pull them down with a demanding urgency. Her breath tumbles from her lips in a strangled gasp as his head dips between her thighs and she feels the cool press of his mouth against her. His tongue pushes and curls inside her in a way that makes her thread her fingers through his soft, golden hair and grasp it, her lower back arching into him. He grabs her hips and pins her to the sofa so she is entirely at his mercy when his lips close around her.

She cries out, sweat gathering on her back, heat and pressure mounting inside her, her breaths becoming shallower and more rapid, and her eyes fly open as her body and mind burst apart.

She’s still recovering, her body riding out the pleasure in gentle, slowing waves as he crawls back up to her, planting soft kisses along her neck and jaw.

“Warn me before you do that again,” she says between tiny pulls of air.

“I promise I will not,” he grins before pulling away from her and leaning against the arm of the sofa. “So, listen. I’ve been thinking.”

She immediately frowns and sits up, pulling her shorts back and up and buttoning her shirt.

“I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“Go on…”

“I don’t want to say where it is yet, because I’d like it to be a surprise. And with what’s happening,” he gestures toward the newspaper on the table, “I think it’ll be nice to get away, just for a weekend.”

She thinks back to a month ago, when she had been crying into a bottle of rum, feeling a cold, cruel despair that she’d hoped she would never feel again. Then she looks at him, blond hair falling over his eyes, and... is he actually a little nervous about what he’s asked her?

“Draco, I…” she starts seriously, taking his hand in hers and looking down at it with a frown.

“Look, it’s fine if you think that’s too—”

“I’d like that.” She meets his eyes and grins when she sees him visibly relax.

  


***

 

Her feet land firmly on what feels like damp grass and when she’s sure they’ve stopped spinning, she loosens her grip on the Portkey and opens her eyes.

Her mouth falls open.

They’re standing on a low hill overlooking a vineyard the size of a football field. Everywhere around them as far as she can see are mountains, rolling green and gold in the wink of the morning sun. To their right is a small, red-roofed house, surrounded by a stone wall with a green gate at the entrance.

“Is...is this yours?” she asks breathlessly.

He nods, his eyes fixed on some distant point along the horizon. “Bought it three years ago with Manor money. I come by from to time. Think I’d go crazy otherwise.”

“How do you ever leave?”

“I have a business to run, Granger. As appealing as it sounds, I don’t think I’m suited to the rustic life of a farmer.”

“And here I thought you’d changed,” she says with a look of feigned disappointment.

“Into what, a farmer?” he snorts and it makes her burst into a fit of laughter.

“Is this somewhere in France?” she asks, when the laughter subsides.

“Northeast, by Alsace,” he nods. “Let me show you,” he extends his hand to her and she laces her fingers through his.

He leads her down the hill and through the vineyard, past near perfect rows of tall wooden poles entwined with thin branches and leaves. Each bears clusters of grapes so plump and richly purple it makes her mouth water. The grapes glisten with dewdrops, and when she reaches out and touches one, the dew clings to her fingertip like a tremulous kiss.

The air out here is crisp and fresh and she understands now why he seemed to smell so often like mountains and rain. She steals a glance at him, and thinks how he’s never looked quite so at peace before.

“It’s beautiful, Draco.”

He smiles and pulls her into his arms, pressing his lips to hers. She breathes him in and lets herself melt into the kiss. They stay like this for a few moments, holding each other, lost to the world, until a rumble of thunder sounds in the distance.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling away.

“Doesn’t sound like it’s close.”

“No, but that just means it’ll be on us in a few hours.”

“Then we’ll deal with it when it comes,” she says, giving him a peck on the jaw before gently tugging on his hand. “Come on, I want to see more of this place. Can I eat these?”

They cross the vineyard and out into the surrounding countryside, through stretches of tall grass and olive trees, before stopping at a spot on a lush hilltop overlooking a lazy, meandering river.

“Why don’t you hire someone to run the business for you and then just come and live here?” she asks, laying her head on his chest as he stretches out on the ground.

“Like I’d trust anyone to do it,” he scoffs. “Besides, what would you do if I lived all the way out here?”

“Be paralyzed with grief, of course.”

“I knew it,” he smirks and she elbows him in the ribs.

Large clouds rolls above them and a phalanx of white storks cuts a graceful path across the pale, watercolour sky.

“You know there are good people out there, Draco.”

“Not enough.”

“Yes, but the ones that do exist are worth knowing about.”

“And I wish them well, but it’s not them I’m concerned about.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes a slow, deep breath. “The kids in MUMPS, they didn’t grow up in the world you and I did. Being told what they were and what they’d become the moment they were born. And the students joining Hogwarts now the bloody Houses are finally gone, things are going to be even better for them. So, if anyone’s got a chance at changing this shit world we live in, it’s them.”

Images drift into her mind then, of Goyle, face sunken and haunted through the mists of a graveyard, Pansy Parkinson languishing in a prison cell.

“And for the rest of us?”

“It’s too late. Like I said at Hogwarts, we’ve lived our whole lives being labelled and put into these almost sacred categories. At school, by our families, friends, even strangers. After a while, these labels become real, we start to actually believe them and make them come true.”

“But surely people are capable of overcoming their past?”

He sighs. “Think about it. If a group of people are treated their entire lives like they’re stupid or worthless or dangerous, they’re going to start believing it and living up to it. Worse, if no one tells them otherwise for long enough, they’re going to accept it as normal, as reality, as the way things are meant to be. It’s written all over human history.”

“I know some people who’ve managed it,” she says quietly.

“The exception proves the rule.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says, rolling over and brushing her lips against his ear.

Her words are almost drowned out by a clap of thunder overhead, sounding much closer now. Dark clouds are starting to gather above the mountains on the other side of the river.

“Fucking forecast said it would be perfect weather this weekend.”

“Doesn’t matter, least we got to spend some time outside.”

He grunts something in response as they both start in the direction of the house.

The first drops of rain start to fall against the windows of the house as they enter, drumming an irregular beat against the roof.

It’s modest just like his apartment, but feels much older, like it’s been lived in for years. The wooden floorboards creak under their feet, and the walls are made of stone, like the house has been carved into the side of a mountain. There’s a table in the middle of the room, a few cabinets here and there, and an old stove top connected to a chimney. A wooden ledge extends from the wall by the window and some pillows and a think blanket lie strewn on top of it.

“Is that where you sleep whenever you’re here?” she asks, nodding toward the ledge.

“Most of the time. There’s a bedroom but I prefer it out here.”

“You keep surprising me.”

He shrugs. “I like old houses. Anything that feels like it’s been around longer than I have, and that I’m only just passing through. Gives me a sense of the scale of things, how little my worries matter.”

Walking to the window, she gazes out at the rain now falling in sheets, whipped by an intensifying wind. She feels him come up behind her and curl his arms around her waist. She leans into him, closing her eyes and tilting her head as she feels the soft scrape of his stubble against her neck.

His hands rise to the straps of her dress and ease them off her shoulders, tugging at the waist so it tumbles to the floor. He nudges a knee between her legs to spread them slightly, one hand dipping past the fabric of her underwear and the other coming up to tease her nipple. She tries to turn, but his mouth latches onto the tender skin of her neck as though to tell her no, he wants her like this.

A soft moan breaks from her lips when she feels him slide a finger inside her, and then another, his kisses on her neck now hot and demanding against her skin. His thumb presses against her, stroking, circling and his fingers start to pump deeper inside her, until her muscles begin to clench. She lets her head fall back against his shoulder, eyes still closed and lips slightly parted, whimpering when his teeth graze and nip her skin.

She nearly yelps when she feels her feet leave the floor, and clings to his neck as he carries her to the table and sits her on the edge. His breath quickens as he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, knocking her knees apart with his own. She reaches down to undo his trousers at the same time, pulling them down so they fall to his ankles.

He casts his shirt to the floor and starts to crawl on top of her, but she shifts herself off the edge of the table and drops to her knees. She wraps her fingers around him, feeling him getting harder under her touch and squeezes gently, pumping her fist slowly up and down before brushing her mouth against his tip.

It’s so loud, the howling winds and the rain hammering against the roof of the house that she can’t make out the words amidst his shallow gasps as she takes him into her mouth and runs her tongue along his length, stroking and curling around every inch of him she can access. He weaves his fingers tightly through her hair as her head moves back and forth and as the muscles of his abdomen start to tense, he wraps his hands around her arms and lifts her up to a wobbly standing position.

“...drive me...fucking mad...” he rasps between heavy breaths as he claims her mouth with his own. His hands glide down her back and curl around her bottom before he lifts her firmly up, her thighs straddling his waist, and carries her to a wall.

She bites down hard on his lip when her back hits the wall and she feels him, hard and straining against the wetness between her thighs.

“Hold on to me,” his voice rumbles against her mouth as he steadies himself with one hand on the wall and uses the other to guide himself inside her. She locks her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as tightly as she can at the loss of support.

He slips one hand behind her head as he sinks into her, gripping her hair, her neck as she relaxes around him. His mouth slips down to her neck as he starts to pump in and out of her and the gale outside is so strong that neither of them realise how loudly they’ve started to moan.

“...fucking...incredible…” she thinks she can hear him say but it’s impossible to tell with the storm pelting against the roof and the blood rushing behind her ears. His strokes are deep and fast and she feels herself seizing around him, her muscles growing taut as a wire as his hips snap harder and harder.

She brushes her lips against his jaw and sees that his eyes are squeezed shut, his eyebrows drawn together like he is fighting to keep his senses intact. He must have felt her watching him because his eyes flutter open to meet hers, and then he kisses her in a way he hasn’t kissed her before.

She cradles his face in her hands as she returns the kiss, deep, hungry, gasping for air.

“...for me...” With another broken whisper in her ear, he presses and circles the pad of his thumb between her legs and that’s all it takes for her to come undone. The world mutes itself for a split second, the rain, the gales, the sounds of their breathing, and then everything comes roaring back.

He catches his breath for a moment before pulling out of her, keeping a steady grip on to her waist as she plants her feet back onto the floor.

“...window,” he manages, taking her hand and pulling her gently toward the window ledge, where he collapses on his back. She crawls in next to him, pulling the blanket over the both of them as she lays on his chest and watches the rain fall against the glass.

Everything outside is a blur of green and grey. They watch as a raindrop glides diagonally down the glass. There’s a crumpled, faraway look in his eyes, and she knows what he’s thinking. How could she not when she’s had the same thought for months, since the moment she first felt his lips on hers?

“What have you got to eat?”

He tears his eyes from the window and stares blankly in front of him. “Just grapes.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious.”

She props herself up on her elbow to take a good look at him. “You invited me over here and didn’t think to get any food?”

“Yeah, it slipped my mind. Sorry,” he turns to her with a sheepish grin. “There’s a shop nearby. We’ll go after the storm clears, alright?”

“Honestly,” she groans, even as the edges of her lips curl into a half-smile, and sinks back down on the pillow.

“Hey, it’s the first time I’ve brought someone here,” he says, interlocking her fingers with his. “Why don’t we focus on that part instead, hm?”

“Can’t focus on much of anything if I’m hungry.”

“I can think of ways to distract you,” he whispers, grazing his lips along her shoulder, but she playfully pushes him away.

The storm outside has started to abate, the rain thinning into a light shower.

“So, I’m the first one you’ve brought here in the three years you’ve had the place?” she asks, her hand still in his.

He nods, stroking the back of her hand. “You’ve got to top that now. Introduce me to your parents or something.”

She stiffens and slowly pulls her hand away from his.

“You alright?” he frowns, looking at her.

“Yeah, just hungry I guess.”

“Look,” he begins, rubbing the back of his head. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that, well, your parents are Muggles aren’t they? They wouldn’t have a problem-”

“I think the rain’s stopping. Can we go soon?” she says, rising from the ledge and moving to retrieve her dress from the floor.

“Uh...yeah, okay,” he says slowly, but she doesn’t turn to catch the look in his eyes.  



	9. Nine

_ Memory is a teacher. _

_ How closely do you listen? _

_ Was it the ending that ruined the symphony, _

_ Or the one that made it glorious? _

 

***

 

“I promise he’s not like the others.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve known him for years, been going to his shop since I moved into this neighbourhood.” She sighs, placing a reassuring hand on his at the troubled look on his face. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. You can trust me.”

He glances at her with a hint of doubt and gives her a terse nod.

“Great,” she smiles. “You’ll like him.”

They stop before the front door and he scans the shopfront nervously for any signs that he may not be welcome.

“See? Nothing.”

The bells overhead tinkle as Hermione pushes the door open. The store is empty, as is the counter.

“Guess he’s stepped out for while,” she says with a slight frown. “We’ll just look around in the meantime, he’s got a wonderful selection.”

“Not bad for a small place,” he says, his eyes sweeping across the displays.

“Right? Can you believe it’s been here for fifty years, but I only discovered—”

“Thought I recognised that voice.” Joseph emerges from a small door at the back of the shop, dusting his hands, his white hair looking slightly more dishevelled than usual. 

She realises she’s never once noticed this door, despite the number of times she’s been here to this shop. But now that she has, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to be oblivious to it again. It’s made of wood, and the sheen of its gold handle is dulled from years of use. Around the handle are tiny, faded stickers of cartoon characters, that look to have been placed there years ago by a child.

“How are you, Hermione?”

“I’m well, Joseph. And you?”

“Good, good, new crate of brandy arrived today. Got to keep the older crowd interested, after all,” he chuckles. “How can I help you today?”

“I just wanted to introduce you to a friend.”

But Joseph has already spotted Draco, the creases vanishing from the corners of his eyes.

“This is Draco. He—”

“I know who he is.” The warmth has flown from Joseph’s voice, and in its place is something she doesn’t recognise. “You shouldn’t keep friends like this, Hermione.”

Draco’s eyes are on the floor, his jaw tensing.

“No, Joseph, he isn’t...I didn’t think you—”

“It was all my wife’s doing, I assure you, removing the sign from the shopfront. I reserve my right to not serve people like him.”

“Let’s go, Hermione,” says Draco through clenched teeth.

“N-no. Joseph, surely you don’t believe—”

“It is not a matter of belief, Hermione. These people have been getting away with heinous crimes for centuries. Only in these last ten years has the community begun to heal itself. We have started to take a stand against ever allowing his kind to set foot in our society again. So it’s not about belief, but rather pure common sense. Now, please, get him  _ out _ of my shop.”

“Don’t bother,” says Draco, turning his eyes to Hermione. “I’m leaving.”

“NO. Wait, please,” says Hermione, looking pleadingly at him. “Joseph, whatever Draco or his family did, please know that he’s been punished for it. They all have.”

“And that’s going to bring my daughter back to me?”

“Fuck this,” Draco hisses, heading for the front door.

“See? No remorse at all. How can you believe him truly changed, Hermione?”

Draco pauses in the doorway, his knuckles white on the handle. He glances at Hermione, who stands rooted to the ground, staring at him with wide eyes. Something ghosts across his face for a fraction of a second and then he storms out the door without a word.

“Joseph—” she exhales in a rush. But what could she say? Ask for his forgiveness, clemency? “I’m sorry about your daughter,” she manages uselessly, her words vanishing in front of her eyes like vapour. 

She leaves the shop and searches for Draco, finally spotting him on the other side of the street.

“Draco, I’m—” she pants, catching up with him.

“Not here,” he grunts, casting a wary glance on the street. She looks around, but there is no one there.

“Come with me to my apartment. It’s close. We’ll Apparate.”

“No,” he says, not stopping. “You said he wasn’t like the others.”

“I really thought so. He never ever spoke about the war and not once did he mention how his daughter—”

“And yet you thought you knew him? From what, a few ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’?”

Her face falls. He’s right, her relationship with Joseph was cordial, but they were no more than strangers. It’s a luxury some people have, she realises, to be able to trust a stranger.

“I’m sorry, Draco.”

“Whatever. I don’t like it here. I want to leave.”

“But we were going to have dinner—”

“Well I’ve lost the mood for that, haven’t I?” He stops and spins around to face her. “This,  _ this _ is why I’ve been trying to hide myself all these years. It’s fucking humiliating. I’m done with these people. I was happy where I was until you dragged me out here—”

“I know, I—” she sputters, taking his hands in hers. “Please just, come home with me and we can talk. Don’t leave me like this.”

He frowns at her, his expression softening as he holds her gaze. “Fine.”

“Okay,” she says shakily. “There’s a spot nearby we can Apparate from.”

She lights the fireplace after they appear in the living room, turning to Draco who’s sunk into her armchair.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Yes.”

She pours out two glasses of wine and curls into the corner of her sofa, giving one to him. They sit in silence.

“You wanted to talk, didn’t you?” he mutters.

She chews her bottom lip, gazing at her fingers through the wineglass, like a sunken ship in a blood-coloured sea.

“Do you know Joseph?”

“Know him?” He stares at her incredulously. “Fuck no. Why would you ask me that?”

“He seemed to recognise you.”

“Because my face has been all over the papers! And my parents’. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.” He sets down his glass. “What are you getting at?”

“He said his daughter was killed.”

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, springing from the armchair and glaring at her . “You think  _ I _ did that?”

She tears her eyes away from her glass to meet his, feeling her heart sink the second she does.

“No, of course not—”  _ Too late. _

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” She hears his voice break mid-sentence.

“No, no, I do. It’s just—”

“Just what? Can’t trust a Death Eater?”

“No!” She almost stumbles over herself standing up. “Just maybe...your father, your aunt, in the manor…”

“Or maybe none of us! Maybe it was one of the Goyles or the Notts or fucking Voldemort himself—”

“Do you think that matters to them?”

“Well it fucking should!”

She almost throws her hands up in frustration and helplessness, something welling inside her like the urge to shatter glass. Joseph had lost his only child, why was Draco being so callous about it? Why, even after a decade, was Joseph refusing to give people like Draco a chance? How is she feeling these two things at once?

“I told you it was too late for us,” Draco says quietly, staring into the charred contents of her fireplace.

“What?”

“This is the world we live in, our reality. Death Eaters will always be Death Eaters.”

It makes her flinch.

“Stop saying that, Draco. Anyone can change if they just bother to try hard enough. Look at you—”

He snaps around to face her, and there is a coldness in his voice that unsettles her. “You really think I’ve changed? Are you that naive?”

“Wh- what are you saying?” she manages, feeling her mouth start to get dry.

“Do you know that I have to tell myself, every time I talk to a Muggle or a Muggle-born, that they’re the same as me? Because I hear my father’s voice, my aunt’s, in my head all the fucking time, telling me how I’ve betrayed them, how filthy I’ve become by living among Muggles. It used to be worse, they’d be all I dreamed about at night. Went through at least six different potions and countless pills just to be able to fall asleep. Then there’s people, like your dear friend, reminding me how I’ll never stop being a Death Eater in their eyes, no matter how hard I try. So sometimes, I think, why bother? Why try so hard when it isn’t going to make an  _ ounce _ of fucking difference in the end?” 

The objects on her fireplace mantle rattle as he slams his hands against it.

She watches as his chest rises and falls, as he drags his fingers through his hair. The question on her tongue tastes bitter and burnt, like ash.

“Do you really still believe Muggles and Muggle-borns are beneath you?”

He breathes deeply and rubs his knuckles over his temples. “I have to fight, every day, not to.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

He looks at her with pure incredulity. “How can you still say that?”

“Because it means you haven’t given up,” she says, moving toward him, her hand outstretched. “That despite everything, you’re still trying-”

He takes a step back. “If I still need to try so hard after all this fucking time, maybe it means this is who I am—”

“But you’re not letting it define you—”

“How are you still this fucking naive—”

_ There’s that word again.   _

“—thinking people can somehow un-break themselves when the whole world is telling them to stay broken.”

“It’s possible if you want it badly enough—”

“You sound so fucking—”

_ Crazy? Deluded? Stupid?  _

“I need to be alone right now.”

There is silence as his words hang in the air like smoke. She turns away from him when the tears begin to sting the backs of her eyes. She hears him swear under his breath. She hears the rustle of his jacket as he picks it up from the back of her armchair. She hears the faint  _ pop _ as he disappears.

 

***

 

“...the process for brewing Wolfsbane. It acts like an antiretroviral, subduing symptoms rather curing the disease. Might be a place to start. What do you think?”

She’s been reading the same section of her notes over and over for the last twenty minutes. It’s no use, every time she tries to concentrate, she mind wanders back to the damned vials taunting her from the bottommost drawer of her desk. There had to be something she did wrong the last time, perhaps an error in brewing, or a miscalculation of ingredients—

“Hermione?”

—and she hadn’t heard from Draco in almost two weeks, so either he was waiting for her to reach out first or—

“Hermione.”

“What?” she snaps, slamming her notes onto her desk.

Elias isn’t fazed anymore. “You asked me to look into a remedy for Spattergroit—”

“I know what I asked you to do.”

“—and I was just suggesting that the process for brewing Wolfsbane could be a useful reference,” he finishes calmly. “Look, Hermione, are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“It’s none of your concern, Elias.”

“I know it might be personal, but—”

“I said, it’s none of your concern.”

“You’re clearly distracted and how am I supposed to—”

“Whether or not  _ I’m _ distracted has nothing to do with you. Your job is simply to do what I tell you, which is—”

“I know what you’ve been doing.” His words come out in a rush, like the air being let out too quickly from a balloon. 

Her heart misses a beat. “What are you talking about?”

He composes himself before speaking. “I’m not stupid, Hermione. I’ve put it together from your notes and the ingredients you’ve been talking about. I know what you’re trying to do.”

She doesn’t doubt he does. His intelligence was the reason she hired him. She’d be impressed if not for the dread currently pooling in her gut.

“I didn’t want to say anything at first,” he continues, his breathing sharp. “Because this job, working with you, I think you knew how badly I wanted it. Who wouldn’t want the chance to work with Hermione Granger, right? I mean, you’re something of a legend back at Hogwarts. The brightest witch of her age. When you told me I’d got the job, I couldn’t believe it. I was ready to put in the work to prove you made the right decision in choosing me. Even if that meant staying late most nights, barely leaving this room all day, I was willing to do it. I wanted to learn as much as I could from you. 

“So, I thought at first, maybe I wouldn’t say anything. Maybe you had a good reason for doing it. But the more I looked into it, the more I couldn’t just stand by,” he sighs, shaking his head, something finally collapsing behind his eyes. “What you’re doing is unethical and illegal—”

“Please don’t tell anyone.” 

“Hermione—”

“Please, Elias. No one can know.”

Elias leans forward in his chair, his eyes darting between the desk and the floor. It would end her career if anyone found out, they both knew that.

“Why are you doing this, Hermione?” 

“I can’t tell you that,” she says softly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Elias. I’ll give you a raise, get you to work on the bigger projects. I’m sure I could talk to—”

“No. I won’t tell anyone, Hermione, but I don’t want to be a part of this anymore.” He raises his eyes to hers and it is the disappointment in them that pierces her.  

“I quit.”


	10. Ten

_ They’re waiting for her on the platform, as they do every year. Dad, beaming, and Mum’s face glowing with pride.  _

_ She tries to muster a small smile for them, but she knows it is weak. This year had been particularly difficult. It’s written all over the faces of the students, in the weary way they greet their families, the shock still not dissolved from their expressions.  _

_ She sinks wordlessly into her mother’s arms . _

_ “How about some ice cream before we head back?” Her mother’s soothing voice brushes against her ear. _

_ She shakes her head. “I just want to go home.” _

_ Her mother sits with her in the back of the car the whole ride home, holding her hand. _

_ Her dad makes her a cup of hot chocolate. They sit with her as she tells them everything. They don’t say anything  _ — _ they can’t. It’s not a world they understand. But they listen. They listen until she has run out of words and the tears dry from her cheeks. _

_ She wakes up the next morning, under a soft blanket on the living room couch. Mum’s asleep on the sofa and Dad’s stretched out on the floor. _

_ It’s such a simple thing, but it makes her just a little more ready to face what’s coming. _

 

***

 

He comes back to her with a knock on the door. 

She hears it as she is fitting a freshly laundered pillowcase over her pillow and knows instantly that it is him. Maybe it is the reticence in the hollows of the sound. Maybe it is the long seconds that pass between the sound of his footfalls on the stairs and the knock itself.

He’s staring at his shoes when she opens the door. His eyes fly up to meet hers as though he wasn’t expecting her to answer it. It doesn’t look like he’s slept in days.

“Look, I—” The words are there, on the tip of his tongue. “I was angry and I— I took it out on you and it wasn’t right and I—”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish but takes him in her arms and rests her cheek against his chest. He exhales and wraps his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into her hair.

She shakes her head.  _ Don’t be.  _

Because she’s just glad he’s here, because she realises now, with a small twinge in her heart, how much she has missed him.

“Come in,” she sniffs, opening the door to let him through.

 

***

 

“You know the MUMPS rally is happening this afternoon,” she says after a long, reflective pause, stretched out on his sofa with her head on his lap.

“So you’ve said, at least five times.”

“I think we should go.”

“Absolutely not.”

She sits up and turns around on the sofa to face him. “You need to see the people who are fighting to stop this, to change things for the better.”

“There are going to be loads of people there.”

“Yes, people that are on  _ your _ side. Who believe in the cause of rehabilitating and reintegrating former criminals, not ostracizing them.”

He shakes his head on a deep exhale. “I don’t know—”

“I’ll be there, I won’t let anyone do anything to you. Not again.”

“You’re willing to be seen in public with me? Heads will explode.”

She simply shrugs. “I don’t want to hide anymore. Do you?”

He doesn’t say anything, but just regards her with a look she doesn’t quite understand.

She takes his hands in hers. “Come with me, Draco. It’ll be a safe space. We don’t need to stay for very long.”

They Apparate together in front of Flourish and Blotts, because it is the one part of Diagon Alley she remembers almost perfectly. The large red sign with two quills poised in the middle. The gold-embossed spellbooks displayed in the front windows. The narrow, twisting, street outside.

She’s about to take his hand when she notices the look on his face. Like a freed prisoner seeing the outside world for the first time in years. The awe of a child, but tempered, beaten down by the vigilant instincts of a hunted man.

A crowd has already started to gather in the middle of the street, where a small stage has been set up with a large orange MUMPS banner stretched out above it. Curious shoppers are starting to stop along the street to get a better view of the stage. The low buzz of excited conversation hangs overhead.

People dotted throughout the crowd are holding up signs. _ Absence of war does not make peace. _

“Let’s stay on the outside,” he mutters as she grips his hand. “Claustrophobia.”

They skirt along the edge of the crowd, aiming for a spot with a direct view of the stage. The crowd begins to thicken as they near the middle of the gathering, their bodies at first brushing, but then inevitably pressing against others.

She isn’t blind to the stares. Double-takes, sideways glances and outright gawking — first at both their faces, then at their interlocked hands, and back to their faces again.

The whispers are a bit harder to drown out.

“...they can’t be…”

“...they’re  _ holding hands _ …”

“...brave of her…”

She looks at him and his face has that unreadable look on it again, eyes fixed ahead of him, jaw slightly tensed. She squeezes his hands, and he turns to her with a suppressed half-smile.

They choose a spot somewhere to the right of the stage, where they’re both partially hidden from view.

A young man she recognises as James Davies walks on stage to raucous applause from the crowd. He’s of slighter build than he appeared in the papers but carries himself with poise.

“Not many people know this,” he begins, his voice magically amplified, and the chatter quickly dissipates. “And I haven’t exactly been open about it, but I was sorted into Slytherin.” A collective murmur ripples through the crowd. 

“I remember being a bit surprised, because I thought I was a good child. I did my homework, I shared my toys with my sisters, I fetched grandmother her glasses whenever she asked for it. I thought only bad children were sorted into Slytherin. And I remember feeling scared, wondering if, deep down, I actually was a bad child, and that I just hadn’t realised it yet.

“I couldn’t sleep at all the first night, so I came down to the common room, and sat shivering in my pajamas in front of the fire. An older student, a fourth-year I think he was, came up to me, and said he understood what I was feeling, that he’d felt the same on his first day.

“He told me I’d get used to it eventually. That I’d been sorted into Slytherin for a reason. That everyone at Hogwarts was sorted into their Houses for a reason. And that I should be proud, not scared or ashamed.”

Draco is rapt. His eyes are fixed unwaveringly on Davies and she hasn’t seen him quite so engaged in anything. 

“And I believed it. I started making friends with students who believed it too. When we took classes with other Houses, or sat in the Great Hall for breakfast, I saw the judgement in other kids’ eyes, felt their hatred burning from across the room. The war had been over for four years, but people still looked at Slytherin as some sort of breeding ground for evil, where all the dangerous people of our world came from.”

A faint murmur seems to have broken out on the other side of the crowd. People are being jostled about.

“I didn’t really understand it, but I think, on some level, I accepted it. I knew what was expected of me. In my second and third-year, I started disobeying teachers, I started calling other students cruel names. Especially the Gryffindors. We were supposed to hate them the most. 

“In my fourth year, I set a girl’s dress on fire. I remember how bright the flames were as they leapt from her dress onto her skin, her hair. She was in the hospital wing for weeks. When she came back, I remember she looked at me, with, it wasn’t hate so much as fear. She was afraid of me.”

From where she is standing, Hermione spots a group of people, perhaps ten or twelve of them, pushing their way toward them. From the glimpses of their faces she can catch in between the crowd, they’re angry, scowling. She can hear bits of what they’re saying as they approach closer.

“...fucking bleeding hearts…”

“...ruining us…”

“...the nerve of holding this shit in Diagon Alley…”

Davies doesn’t appear to have noticed them. “A teacher, Professor Slughorn, called me into his office that day, and asked me plainly why I did it. I didn’t have an answer for him. Because the answer in my head sounded stupid. He wasn’t angry at me, though. He didn’t shout at me, or tell me what an idiot I was being. Instead he said that it wasn’t me that was broken, but a world that taught its children that they were essentially one thing. That their personalities, their friends, their whole lives, could be determined at the age of eleven. 

“And what a powerful thing that is. How it crept into my brain and made me say and do unlikely things. That might be alright for brave Gryffindors, or wise Ravenclaws, or loyal Hufflepuffs. But what did it mean for Slytherins, who were expected to be the worst of the worst?”

One member of the group spots Draco while barging past the two of them, and stops abruptly in front of him, glowering, his breath hot and phlegmy. A few people around them have started to whisper and back away, looking slightly alarmed. 

“Get out of my face,” Draco sneers, looking the man resolutely in the eye. 

“...we’re not standing here today to excuse the crimes of those who presently sit inside a cell in Azkaban. What they did was wrong and will always be so...”

Hermione reaches into her pocket, her hand curling around her wand. The man flinches at her movement, narrowing his eyes as he studies her face with vague recognition. He seems only then to notice the curious, wary looks that he has started to attract. He shoots Draco another burning glare and spits at his feet before disappearing once more through the crowd. 

“...recognition of the fact that criminals are made, not born. That dividing and classifying ourselves and offering no one any room for change or growth, were exactly what led to the war that devastated our community not ten years ago…”

“I think I’d like to leave now,” Draco whispers in her ear, glancing after the man’s retreating figure with renewed agitation. 

“...MUMPS welcomed the abolishment of the Hogwarts Houses. Now, we endeavor to do more. We want changes in our laws that continue to protect bigotry. We want to rehabilitate and reintegrate those we have cast out of our community, to show them that one decision that was made for them at the age of eleven does not have to determine the rest of their lives…”

“Don’t let them intimidate you, Draco. They were just trying to scare you—”

“...but we have a lot of convincing to do. We’re going to hold rallies like this in a new wizarding quarter each month until we’ve reached all of them. If every one of you here brought one new person to these rallies when we’re in your neighbourhood, it could make a huge impact. We’re going to tell our stories…”

“There are at least four hundred people here,” he hisses. “All believing in a cause those idiots desperately want to stamp out. I’m just saying it would be all too easy to—”

“...write letters to the Minister and to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…”

“We can’t keep running away.” Her voice is cracking and her hands are on his shoulders. “ _ You _ can’t. We’ve got, at some point, to say, enough’s enough. No more hiding. Look at how much support MUMPS is getting and all the things they’ve said they’re going to do next. This a good thing, Draco, they’re helping to make the world safer for you—”

The crowd erupts in applause as Davies ends his speech. More members of MUMPS join him onstage to further deafening cheers and hoots of approval. 

_ They’re all so young,  _ she thinks, watching them thump Davies on the shoulder and wave energetically at the crowd.  _ And they’ve managed to capture something in all these people’s hearts. It’s such a beautiful thing.  _

“Alright, can we go now? I believe I’ve fulfilled your requirements,” mutters Draco.

“Fine,” she smiles. 

He grunts something in response as he leads her out of the enthused crowd, searching for a quiet spot they can Disapparate from. Davies’ speech is still ringing in her ears, reverberating in her chest, every word filled with a daring hope she hasn’t felt in years. 

The sun is setting onto a cool spring evening as they Apparate into the alley behind her apartment. There aren’t many people out and about at this hour, most of them having already retreated into their homes to enjoy the last precious hours of the weekend.

“So, what did you think?”

“It was fine, though I can’t help but think they were preaching to the choir.”

“They probably were, but they’re going to keep pushing. More people are going to start talking about them. That’s how any movement grows.”

“And they’re all young, which doesn’t hurt—”

“Exactly, I thought—”

It all happens so soundlessly, like silk slipping through her fingers. The words die on her tongue when the alley is illuminated in burst of fiery orange light. She hears Draco’s strangled yell in the pit of her stomach, and then the thud of his body as it hits the concrete. 


	11. Eleven

“DRACO! No...no!”

He’s curled against the ground, hands tearing wildly at the front of his shirt, his breath coming in loud, sucking gasps. Then there is the smell, acrid and metallic, that seeps under her own skin like a noxious gas.

She falls to her knees beside him, incoherent, her hands shaking and eyes watering as she tries to tear through his shirt, but it’s so hot, part of it’s been singed into his skin, and there’s blood and burnt flesh, and god the smell…

She looks around the alley but it is deserted, not a single sign of anyone having been there, lurking in wait. It must have come from across the street, but whoever it was was certainly long gone by now.

He’s struggling to breathe, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he chokes. The curse was strong, already penetrating his lungs, and she has to find a way to stop it sinking deeper into his body, a potion, or a counter-curse...

“Vulnera Sanentur…” she starts to say, her brain scrambling to find the right words. “Tergeo...Anapneo...Draco, Draco stay with me...I’m going to get help…” The dried blood is clearing slowly, the long, deep gash in the middle of his chest is closing, but she has no way of knowing the internal damage...she’s never seen such a curse before.

She raises her wand in the air, and a few lime-green sparks shoot from the tip.

Her mind races as she throws his arm around her shoulder and lifts him to a wobbly standing position. He’s heavy, his entire body weighing on her legs and back like a rock as she heaves him up the stairs, not daring to risk Apparition in his condition.

The back door almost blasts off its hinges with the force of her spell. She walks him to her sofa, and she thinks she is going to lose the feeling in her legs, her trembling knees almost buckling under his weight.

His pulse is slow, too slow, when she lays him down and presses her thumb to his wrist. His breathing has slowed and his eyes are unfocused, half-closed.

“No...no...Draco don’t fall asleep...help is on the way...please don’t fall asleep…” She blinks back tears, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she stumbles to a nearby cabinet and rummages desperately through various remedies and potions, mentally going through every form of fire-based magic she knows of.

“Incendio..flagrate...but something close...what is it, what is it…” The curse was modified, she could see that, not originally meant to be cast on humans, but on objects, intended to burn flesh upon contact, so the effect when cast directly on a human body would be...

“Oh, god...no, no…” The closest thing she has is a burn-healing paste, but the damage to his lungs or heart is unknowable. Who would do such a thing?

There are several loud cracks as three medi-wizards appear in her living room and immediately move toward Draco. Their movements are swift, practiced, efficient. One of them pulls a small object out of her pocket and enlarges it into a stretcher while the other two lift Draco’s body onto it. He’s become so deathly pale that Hermione is starting to feel numb.

“What’s happened here?” the second medi-wizard asks as his colleagues lift the stretcher and prepare to Disapparate.

“It was...someone cursed him. Flagrante, I think, I’m not sure.”

He nods, casting a quick, sweeping glance over the burn, by now a raw pink colour, the skin around it scarred and blackened. “And you are”

“Hermione Granger. I’m a friend.”

“Right, come with us Miss Granger.” Hermione takes his outstretched hand and the ground disappears beneath her feet.

 

***

 

She wants to scream at him.

Wake up. Don’t leave me, not now, not like this.

The pressure in her chest gets unbearable sometimes, like her body has sunk too far underwater. Healers stream in and out of the ward, checking his vitals, administering potions, recording measurements from the instruments by his bedside that are helping him breathe. They ask her how she’s doing, if she’d like to go home for a proper rest, as if anything of that really matters.

He is a husk. You can stop looking at me like I’ve crawled back up from the dead, he had told her that night at Hogwarts. Maybe she hadn’t noticed then, how deep the lines around his eyes had really been, or how his body hunched inward like it was shrinking from a threat that wasn’t there. How gingerly he touched everything, even her, like he had no right to.

She doesn’t recognise this man. No, this is not the man whose hands ignited wildfires in her soul. Not the man who surprised her, every day, with a strength so silent she often missed it. Not the man who was the home she didn’t know she craved.

This is the man the world is determined to make him.

 

***

 

Three times, the instruments by Draco’s bed blare shrilly and healers rush in. The first time, one of them has to physically escort her outside the ward, but the second and third time she leaves on her own, withstanding the hours by counting the tiles on the floor.

 

***

 

The ward is on the fourth floor, in a section of the hospital she’s never been to before. It’s isolated, separated from the other wards by a long corridor with a panel of light on the ceiling that keeps flickering on and off. A fine layer of dust sits on the windowsill. A large potted fern wilts silently in the corner of the room. She tries not to look at the spot of dried blood at the foot of the bed.

There are five other beds in the ward and they’re all empty, until the Healers bring in a man a few days later. He’s grey-haired and skeletal, dressed in a white shirt with grey stripes. A pair of silver handcuffs are fastened around his wrists.

 

***

 

“...just a bit longer and...”

“...third one this year...”

“What?” she says, straightening up from her slumped half-sleep, her tongue heavy in her mouth. “Did you say third attack this year?”

The Healers cast furtive glances at each other.

“Well, yes,” one of them finally says. “We were able to recognise the curse that was performed. He’s lucky you were there that night,” he adds shaking his head.

“The curse, what was it?”

“We think it’s a modified Flagrante. Strange, ‘cus usually that curse is used on—”

“Objects, yes,” she says slowly, remembering a vault full of multiplying, searing hot treasure. “So they burn anyone who touches them. I thought it couldn’t be used on human bodies.”

“Baffled us as well,” the Healer says, scratching his beard. “We’ve got our medical researchers working on it. We suspect the curse was never intended to kill per se, but rather severely injure its target. The others who were struck with it this year have lost significant muscle function and need special devices to help them breathe.”

“Like he said, he was incredibly lucky you were there,” adds the other mediwizard, his narrowed eyes studying Draco’s unconscious body. “Curse might’ve done serious damage to his heart if we’d arrived even a few minutes later than we did.”

“But who’s doing this?” She knows of course, implicitly. They all did. It had been happening for years but no one ever talked about it. “Is the Ministry looking into these attacks at all?

“We send in reports,” the first mediwizard says, staring at his trainer as he scuffs it against the polished white floor. “But there isn’t much will to take action.”

She feels a scream start to burst inside of her but it’s like there is a spinning black hole in her chest, sucking every emotion back into its depths before it even has a chance to form.

It’s like a line has been crossed, and no one knows how or even cares to undo it.

How could anyone go back to what they were before, when they’ve looked into the face of a dying man, and turned away?

 

***

 

She thinks it’s been ten days, or maybe twelve. She hopes sometimes, stupidly, then when she comes back after a shower at home, he’d be awake, flinching as he tried to sit up. And that he’d smile at her in that way of his, that would make her want to reach out and learn the curve of his cheek under her fingers.

Once, she had collapsed on her own bed, to rest her eyes for a few minutes, and ended up sleeping for fourteen hours straight. She hated herself for it.

 

***

 

The faces meld together. Sometimes it’s Barnaby’s eyes, red and spitting with rage. Sometimes it’s the man from the rally, his teeth grinding. Other times it’s Joseph, a darkness crouching behind his kind, brown eyes.

Sometimes it’s a shadow, standing across the quiet street with his wand pointed at her. She readies a counter-curse, but the fiery light hits too quickly. Always too quickly.

 

***

 

She hears the soft rustling of sheets, her neck twinging painfully as she lifts her head from the steel arm of the chair.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting up against stacked pillows.

“Draco,” she says, reaching out and taking his hand, her words tumbling in the rush of her relief. “Oh, god, I’ve been so scared.”

His hand is limp in hers as his gaze slides from her face to the foot of the bed.

“How long?”

“Two weeks, I think.”

He pinches his eyes shut on an exhale of air. She knows what he will ask next but still isn’t prepared when he does.

“Who was it?”

She wets her lips slowly. “I— They don’t know. They know the curse that was used, but they don’t have any leads...” Her words trail off when his face hardens and she knows he doesn’t care to hear the rest.

“But you’re okay.” Her voice lifts as she squeezes his hand. “I performed some counter-curses and the Healers arrived in time. They said there isn’t any serious damage.”

His hand twitches under hers and his gaze remains fixed at the foot of his bed.

She feels her chest tightening again and realises the pressure never fully went away.

“I shouldn’t have taken you to the rally,” she blurts out. “You weren’t ready and I was being stubborn and refused to listen. I thought if you could only see what MUMPS were doing, how many people support them, that you could finally stop hiding, but...but maybe it was all too soon.

“The Healers—” her voice breaks. “They make reports to the Ministry, but nothing’s been done. And that makes me so angry. None of it’s fair, all these attacks are completely unprovoked, and no one cares enough to stop them. It goes all the way to the top, and until there are actual laws and penalties, people are going to keep feeling justified in committing these horrific attacks. I— I didn’t realise how dangerous it still is for you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

He continues staring at the foot of the bed, completely silent, and she is drowning in it.


	12. Twelve

_What is life without memory?_

_A fresh slate, a chance to live for tomorrow,_

_Without the ghosts of the past,_

_Without pain, and without beauty._

 

***

 

Her feet follow a memorised path toward the experimentation chambers. She picks up number 507 along the way, the bell-jar feeling heavier in her arms than she recalls.

She goes through the motions for what she hopes will be the last time, setting up the bell jar on the dish and tipping the potion into the open mouth of the metallic mask. The orange mist is as bright and alive as she remembers, the brain pulsing and shining as the potion works its ways into its deepest vaults.

Even now, she cannot shake Draco from her mind, the lifeless, broken way he had looked at her as he closed the front door of his apartment, all her questions lying unanswered on his living room floor.

She draws the memory out, empties it into the Pensieve and plunges forward on a deep breath.

_It’s the same house, the same mustard yellow sofa. The same wallpaper and wooden furniture._

_There is no cuckoo clock on the wall, no jewellery box on the mantelpiece, no birdhouses along the shelves. The young man is absent in all of the framed photographs along the wall._

_An old woman emerges from behind a bead curtain hanging over an archway._

_“I made these sugar cookies for you, dear.”_

_“Thank you, Mrs. Livingston. You really shouldn’t have taken the trouble.”_

_“Nonsense, dear. The potions you prescribed have been working wonders. I plan to take full advantage of my mobility while I still have it.”_

_“I’m very happy to hear that. No more pains, I take it?”_

_“I get the occasional pain flare at night, but it’s so much better than what it used to be.”_

_“That’s good. Please call me the minute anything changes. As I said, it’s a new method, so we cant be sure how long the effects will last.”_

_“I’m not long for this world, dear. I’ll try anything so long as it doesn’t kill me.”_

_The old woman smiles at Hermione as a mother might smile at her child. There are still no traces of the young man, no indication that he had ever lived in this house. The air around them then ripples, like a flat stone skipping across the surface of a pond. Mrs Livingston’s memory is starting to repair itself, adapting as best as it can to the hole that’s been torn inside of it._

_“We never had any children, you know, George and I. Can’t for the life of me remember why. We had assumed we would, but somehow it never came to pass. We got caught up in our own lives and our youth, until a day came when we weren’t so young anymore. It makes me worry sometimes, more and more now, about what will happen to this house. I hope another family will move in, maybe a nice couple with children, and it’ll live on in some way._

_“It’s a relief though, to believe I might not die in pain. Thanks to your potions, I might actually be able to go peacefully in my sleep. How lucky I am to have met you, dear.”_

_Hermione smiles down at her fingers clasped together on her lap._

_“I’m just doing my job, Mrs. Livingston.”_

_“Please dear, call me Maria.”_

Hermione waits for them to finish their conversation. She waits until they embrace at the doorstep and part ways. The young man never reappears, erased at last from his mother’s memory.

The memory starts to fade, and it is like she is looking at it behind frosted glass.  
  
She emerges, wide-eyed and gasping.

It worked. It finally worked.

She had always wondered what this moment would feel like. It often seemed abstract, like a star in the sky one often gazed at, but could never hope to touch. She thought she might feel triumph, a sense of achievement at creating something even the most brilliant of minds had never even dared attempt. Or might she feel shame at letting things get this far?

Instead she feels nothing. She’s reached the edge of a precipice, one she’s being walking toward for so long. Now she’s looking down into a deep, unknowable darkness, trapped inside of a moment, before the fall from which she is just one small step away.

There is only one person she wants to see before she jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really short chapter so I thought I'd slip in a note to you all here. Thanks to everyone who has been reading Memoriae so far, we have just 3 chapters to go till the end! How have you been liking it so far? I hope the plot has been clear, because I usually like to imply or suggest things rather than say exactly what is happening. Let me know if anything's been unclear or confusing and I can try to clear it up in the next chapters or in another A/N. Again, thanks for reading and if you've enjoyed this story, let me know if there are other Dramione drabbles, ficlets or oneshots you'd like to see and I can try to make it happen. Hit me up on tumblr at sandalwoodandpine! Much love!


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for last week, I'm uploading two chapters today. This is the penultimate post, which means this story will be concluded next week. Thank you once again to everyone who has been reading, liking and commenting so far, wherever in the world you are :)

The knocking sounds distant and delayed, like all her senses are sliding out of place.

She pounds harder on his door.

He stands there, gently fuming as the door swings open. His hair is lightly mussed and he is dressed in grey pajama bottoms. A huge pink scar is slashed across his chest.

She leans softly into him, wrapping her arms around his head and pressing her lips to his. Her fingers thread through his hair as she nudges him backward into his living room.

“Mm- what’re you doing—” he protests, his palms flat against her shoulders.

Her teeth tug on his lower lip and her hand slips between their legs, feeling him getting harder beneath his clothes.

“Hermione—”

She slips her tongue into his mouth, her hand starting to stroke and squeeze.

With a breathless groan, he cups her head and returns her kiss. It’s a rhythm they both know by heart, a song they’ve danced to so many times before. She parts her lips even before his tongue curls against her mouth and her back is already arching when he touches her breast. His lips trail down her neck and she moans, knowing the sound will drive him hard between her legs.

He smells faintly of sweat and the sleep she has torn him from. His eyelids are thick and his movements, though hungry and assured, are clumsy, uncoordinated.

Maybe it is this easy, she starts to think, her heart swelling as his hand slips under her dress.

Maybe things will go back to the way they were.

“F-fuck me, Draco.”

His hand stutters and comes to a standstill on her thigh. His breaths fall fast and hot against her neck.

“Hmm, why’d you stop?” she murmurs against his cheek, her fingers tracing restless circles along his back.

“You’re drunk,” he says, pulling away from her. She stumbles against him.

“So what if I am?” Her arm flashes out to grab his as he starts to turn away. He jerks his arm out of her grasp and puts a few steps between them, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Come on, Draco, I want this.” Her voice is slow and dream-like, and a laugh tumbles from her lips like an errant bubble.

“I don’t.”

“Stop lying. You want this just as much as I do.”

“Not when you’re drunk.”

“Don’t fucking worry about that. I’m asking you to-”

“Well, I don’t want to!” he cries, spinning around and glaring at her.

“I saved your fucking life!” Her words singe her tongue, smoke curling from their blackened edges.

For a while, he just looks at her like he’s been punched.

“I don’t want to talk about that now.”

“Then when are we going to talk about it?” she shouts to hide the tremor in her voice. “I waited at your bedside for weeks, I did everything I could do make sure the damage-”

“Which never would have happened if not for you!” His voice explodes like thunder in the still air, his face crumpling the moment the words leave his lips.

She reaches slowly out for him, like a ghost in a dream.

“I only did it so you could stop hiding.”

“Yeah? And how did that turn out? Hiding has helped me survive—”

“You can’t hide forever—”

“Yes, I can. I’ve found my own way.” He looks at her through hooded eyes. “It’s you that can’t.”

“What are you saying?”

“You have a life here, a job, friends—”

“What are you saying, Draco?”

“I’m saying,” he breathes, passing a hand over his face. “That maybe we need to end this now, or it’s only going to get harder.”

The knowledge that he’d one day say this had always sat like a hard, gnarled seed in the pit of her stomach, but it still feels like all the air has been sucked from the room.

“No, no, you don’t mean that,” she stammers, moving closer to him, her hands grazing the tops of his arms. “You don’t mean that, you can’t—”

He leans into her touch, pressing his forehead against hers, his throat clenching. “What will you tell people, Hermione? That you’re in love with a Death Eater?”

His lips hover just inches from her own, but something between them is stretching unstoppably, wide as a chasm.

“Stop saying that. That’s not who you are.”

“What will they think?”

“I don’t give a fuck what people think—”

“You say that now, but wait till you’re asked to resign for no apparent reason, or till they stop acknowledging you or, hell, try to kill you too—”

“We’ll find a way, Draco, we can get through—”

“Are you listening to me?” he cries, tearing himself away. “It’s either lie or hide for the rest of your life! Do you understand?”

“You’re willing to give up on us just like that?” She furiously wipes away a tear as it rolls down her cheek. “Did all of this mean nothing to you?”

He turns away from her and walks to the tall, grey-curtained windows. His shoulders tremble slightly as he releases a slow, shaky breath.

“Do you remember what I told you once,” he says after a stifling silence. “About having to convince myself each day that Muggles and Muggle-borns are just like me?”

“I told you, I—”

“They’re right in what they say about us. No matter how much the world changes or how much   
I try to fight, there are things that are just beyond my control. A voice in my head that never goes away, or a knee-jerk reaction that happens before I can stop it. It’s memories that lurk around and taunt me everytime I try to overcome them. And when people call us murderers and scum, I can’t help but think maybe they still see some darkness in us. In the end, we are, more than we realise, what the world made us, what the world wants us to be.

“But don’t for one second believe that I never cared for you, Hermione.” His eyes are shining when he turns to look at her. “I did, I do, so damn much.”

She holds his gaze, feeling it scorch through her skin and set alight something she’s kept hidden far away, for far too long.

“I want to tell you something,” she says slowly, her heartbeat throbbing behind her ears. And when the words come, she does not try to stop them.

“It frustrates me, so much, to hear you talk like this. Saying that things are beyond your control, that people are just a product of their circumstances without the power to do anything about it. Well, I don’t believe that. I believe that anyone can overcome anything if they’re willing to try hard enough.”

She steels herself, the truth bursting on her tongue like an old, overripe fruit.

“During the war, I had to do something that I never thought I’d be able to do. I did it in the end, because I had to. When the war ended, I tried to undo it. But I couldn’t, because something had gone wrong with the original spell. I must have been too hesitant or afraid when I had first cast it, and that affected the spell. For almost eight years afterward, I tried everything, I read every book there was on the subject, but nothing worked. I knew, I suppose, much earlier, that the error was irreversible, but I didn’t let myself believe it until much later.

“It was like a light had gone out inside me when I finally realised it. I didn’t go into work for three weeks. I stayed home and cried and drank myself into a stupor. It was the worst pain I think I’ve ever felt in my life. But something else happened in those three weeks. I realised I could either live with the pain for the rest of my life, or live without it.”

She realizes she isn’t able to meet his eyes. “So I’ve made something, a potion. It took me almost a year, and I failed many times along the way, but I’ve done it now. And I’ll never know such a pain ever again. Because I refuse to let the pain become a part of me. I refuse to let this world break me.”

His face has gone pale and his eyes are wide, fearful.

“What d’you mean, what have you done?”

“A permanent memory-erasing draught. So I can forget them too.”

“Your own—”

“My own mother and father, yes.”

“Are you fucking mad?”

“No,” she retorts, her teeth grinding. “Don’t you dare use that word on me.”

“What, erasing decades worth of memories, tampering with your own mind, how is that not fucking insane?”

“I’m doing it to take back control over my life! This is a solution—”

“What about all the good memories, then? You’re willing to erase those too?”

“There are no good memories left!” Her voice is frayed and straining, her arms spread like something precious has tumbled from her grasp. “Every time I have a happy memory, the knowledge comes, like a poison, that my own parents have no idea who I am, and never will again. Sometimes I dream about them, and for one, extraordinary moment when I open my eyes, I really believe they’re still with me. It makes me wish they were dead, only because it would make it all easier. How do you expect me to live like that? How can anyone be asked to live with a pain like that?”

“Because they’re still a part of you, even if they don’t remember you anymore!” he urges, pacing the floor in tight circles. “The whole point of having memories, no matter how painful, is so you can learn from them, remember where you started, how far you’ve come. You don’t realize—”

“How far I’ve come?” Her eyes are narrowed, incredulous. “I’ve been held back, wishing for a life I can no longer—”

“No!” He gazes at her almost pleadingly. “It held you back only because you let it. But you have come far. You’ve saved lives through your research, you told me so yourself! Maybe that’s because some part of you doesn’t want anyone else to go through the same pain you did—”

“And that’s great for them, but what about me? I don’t want to suffer anymore, don’t you understand—”

“Oh, there are hundreds of things from my life I wish I could excise with a fucking potion, you have no idea, but I never would, because those memories remind me of who I was once, and why I should never let myself become that person again. It is fucked up, Hermione. I know, I get it. But don’t do this, please. You can never go back if you do.”

“No, no,” she shakes her head furiously. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m so tired of feeling like this all the time and I want my life back—”

“But what you’re doing…you keep telling me to stop hiding, to fight, but this...this… this is the easy way out—”

“How dare you fucking say that?” she almost screams, her throat raw, nails digging painfully into her palms. “Do you have any idea how bloody agonising it felt when I realised what I was willing to do? I stopped speaking to my friends, I started drinking almost every night, a part of me felt like it had died, and you call it the easy way out?”

She feels like she’s in pieces, her limbs held together by only the barest of sinew and bone. He stands with his palms pressed to the back of his neck, staring at her like she’s become a stranger all over again.

“You’re really doing this?” he manages weakly.

“Yes,” she whispers, suddenly feeling more tired than she has in months.

He leans back against the wall, his eyes glazed and wet. Long minutes tick by in silence before he speaks again, his voice soft and distant.

“Look at what this war’s done to us. I hide every single day, living in fear for my life, and you’re breaking into your own mind, stealing your own memories from yourself. All just to survive another day. We’re not okay, Hermione, and two people like us…”

He tilts his head against the wall, pressing his eyes tightly shut. “I wish I’d never met you.”

She thought she knew pain up to this point, its vicious sting, the way it would explode inside her chest like broken glass. But this pain is different, heavy, like the black depths of an ocean.

There is only one way she knows to deal with pain anymore.

“Do you want to forget me?” she whispers.

His footsteps are muffled on the carpet and the air shifts around her as she’s pulled into his arms. His chest is warm and she breathes him in, knowing she might not get the chance again.

“Never,” he breathes into her hair. “You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

Maybe, if he won’t, she will. Because the happiness lives only in memories now, and she knows what can happen to happy memories.

She stays in his arms for a little while, before she pulls away.

There is a silence except for the rustling of her coat as she tugs it around her body, the whisper of her kiss on his cheek, the faint crack as she disappears. 


	14. Fourteen

Falling isn’t like what she thought it would be. Besides the initial jolt in the stomach, it feels like wild abandon, like she is finally weightless, finally free.

The potion is like acid as it sears down her throat. Her throat clenches and her stomach heaves, and she runs to the basin in case she has to throw it up. Her nerves start to burn. Her entire body is trying to reject it, as she knew it would. She forces it down, thinking of the peace she would finally have.

She’s scribbled their address on a piece of paper that she’s left on her dresser. Maybe now, they could start over.

When the potion hits her brain, it begins to lull her to sleep. She floats to her bed and lays down, her eyelids drifting slowly shut.

She thinks of the other vial, tucked deep in the pocket of her coat. She thinks of him, how beautiful he always looked when he held her in his arms, how soft his voice whenever he said her name.

Then sleep comes.

 


	15. Fifteen

**2012**

What most people don’t know about exile is that it isn’t just about the big things. The fall from grace. The powerlessness. The hatred and the fear. The loneliness.

It’s also the little things, he realises, as he walks down a bustling street, unhurried, hands in his pockets, summer’s warmth on his cheeks.

It has taken him a good while to get used to the fact that he no longer has to hurry whenever he is out in public. He still instinctively pulls up his hood sometimes, and has to remind himself he doesn’t need to do that anymore.

They’d finally done it. It had taken them years, but the kids from MUMPs had relentlessly rallied and lobbied and petitioned their way into the halls of Ministry legislature and the new law was passed. No discrimination of any person on the basis of identity, including, but not limited to, former criminal status. It had not been taken well of course. He’d seen photos of large, angry crowds choking up the Atrium at the Ministry, holding up large signs and demanding that the law be revoked.

It would take a lifetime for their world to heal, he knows that. Centuries of division don’t just disappear in a day, perhaps not even after fifteen years.

He pauses in front of a large glass window, gleaming new books propped up on gilded stands. It’s been ages since he’s had the time to read, especially since business started to pick up. He ducks inside the bookshop, the sounds from the street dropping to a muffled hum as the door swings shut behind him.

It’s fairly crowded in here, people browsing at their leisure along the long, wooden aisles.

His eyes dart to the woman at the counter, but she seems not to have taken any notice of him. One or two people glance up, but only for a moment, and then they’re back to whatever they were reading.

He releases the breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding, and wonders how long before the fear will truly go away.

He ambles along the shelves, skimming titles.

When he sees her, she’s biting her bottom lip, her expression tight and serious on the pages of the book in her hand. She’s wearing a white blouse, loosely tucked into a pair of jeans, and her hair is longer now, falling over her shoulders in large curls. Her face, gently lit by a shaft of dusty sunlight, is softer, rosier, even more beautiful than he remembers it.

He thinks of the last time he saw her, the deep, clawed grief that tore in his chest as he let her go, the way her eyes had crumbled from the pain trespassing there. He thought about that night a lot, wondered if it had been a mistake, but he knew that the shards and fragments that made up their world had cut them both in too many ways.

So when the good memories come, they are tinted in a faded light. How she used to look at him with those curious, probing eyes, how her words lingered in his thoughts far longer than he let on, the quickening of her heart when he touched her, the way her lips parted beneath his.

He thinks he should say something, but the words stall in his throat. He nervously brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck and she must have noticed the movement because she raises her head to look at him.

In a single, elastic moment, he remembers the potion she told him about, the pain she said she would rather erase than hold on to for the sake of all the beauty that came before it, the beauty that gave the pain its teeth, and his heart leaps to his throat because he’s afraid she might have forgotten him too.

But then she smiles at him, a smile so tender in its brimming, so full of the stratospheric joys and fathomless sorrows that are bound so inextricably together in every living heart.

And it tells him everything he needs to know.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *releases breath* Thanks to everyone who has been reading Memoriae! Can't believe this story has now come to an end. I loved every moment writing it, as I hope you loved reading it. Tell me what you thought! Till the next story :)


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